


Artistic Differences

by Dementian



Series: The Devil's Child [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Execution, F/M, Horse Racing, Infidelity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Rehabilitation, Secret Marriage, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 146,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/pseuds/Dementian
Summary: After discovering that he is the long lost James Crawley, Thomas Barrow must now come to terms with what it means to be a Viscount under intense public scrutiny. Sequel to "The Devil's Child"





	1. Rite of Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This story will serve as a sequel to my prior work: [The Devil's Child](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933884/chapters/37153694). Please note, I am creating this story while also finishing up my Masters of Fine Arts degree from Savannah College of Art and Design. As a result, I will try to update as much as possible, but it may be slightly difficult for me to do it on a weekly basis. Please be patient with me!

Swirls of dust curled and unfurled upon one another, constantly distracting Thomas as he kept a sharp profile upon his knees. He was uncomfortable, weighted down by a coronation robe that bore two and half bars of ermine tails. The white silk satin ribbon about his throat felt tight against his skin, and every time Thomas swallowed he could feel his adams apple doing battle with the cloth. Worst of all, he balanced atop his head a coronet which held court to sixteen “pearls”; every twitch of his body threatened to make the coronet fall, so Thomas found himself powerless to do anything but stay absolutely still.

An itch was threatening to murder him upon the bridge of his nose. Cor, but how he wanted to scratch it-!

Westminster Abbey was nothing and everything like he’d imagined, with massive arches of concrete which towered overhead to lace like the bodice of a goddess. Checkered tile underneath was surely hundreds of years old. Everything was gilded, everything was opulent. He felt out of place and yet somehow right at home. He was a member of the peerage, a Crawley, and after today a true Viscount of Downton. At the same time, behind him in the rafters sat Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes alongside his family. They were the only members of the staff able to attend, and they were not allowed beyond the partition which blocked Thomas from the rest of the church. Here, only Thomas could kneel before Archdeacon Storr.

He’d practiced for days, rehearsed his lines late into the night for fear of making an arse of himself. Even so, Thomas kneeled in terror, his heart clamoring in his breast as he waited for Storr to pronounce him a Viscount and end this sodding affair.

“Thomas James Robert Crawley the twelfth, you are commanded here today by God and country to be recognized as Viscount of Downton, and Lord Downton, heir to Earl of Grantham and Lord Grantham, Robert James Crawley the eleventh. You are now knelt before the throne of your country and God,” Storr paused, allowing Thomas the opportunity to break into a cold sweat as his eyes drifted beyond Storr to where the Stone of Scone and the Coronation Chair sat enthroned underneath a canopy of velvet magenta tapestry lined in gold.

Frankly, he could do without the reminder that he was knelt near the throne of England. It only made him want to throw up.

But beyond him, his parents sat beaming side by side. Mary, his twin, was practically on the verge of tears for all her pride in him. Edith, his other sister, simply smiled and watched. As proud as she was for him, it was nothing compared to Mary’s delight. It was Mary that loved him best, and Mary that had helped him to memorize his lines.

“Sir, are you willing to take the Oath?” Storr asked.

“I am willing,” Thomas croaked. He swallowed immediately to try and wet his parched throat, and felt his adams apple do battle against the tie of his coronation robes.

Storr held in his withered hands a bible so massive that it looked like a painting more than a book. Still, he held it out to Thomas, who could only slowly raise his hands and rest them upon the bible. His fingers trembled upon the cracked leather cover. Above their heads, the dust was still swirling. He wondered, did maids clean the abbey? Or was such a massive task impossible to undertake?

The words of his oath slipped by, line after line which blurred upon his tongue and made him feel like he was choking. He was made to promise so many things, things he couldn’t possibly achieve in ten lifetimes let alone one. But his father had told him last night, when Thomas had been unable to sleep, that it was merely a formality, not a demand.

“My pride in you is without limits,” Robert Crawley had whispered in the dark. Sitting upon the edge of Thomas’ bed (a bed which had once been his own), Robert had waited till Thomas fell back asleep before returning to his own bed. It had been, to date, the kindest act of parenthood that Thomas had ever known.

“These things which I have here promised, I will perform and keep,” Thomas finished. In a final act of absolution, Thomas was made to kiss the bible before him. It was a dry peck of a thing, hardly worthy of a letter home, but it sealed the act.

“I present you with the vestments of your lineage and line,” Storr made the sign of the cross, touching upon Thomas’ coronet and cloak. “You are now blessed with the titles and honors of Viscount, as by accordance of our laws and lands.” Storr paused, two fingers gently laid upon the very top of Thomas’ coronet like he might make to pluck it off. “You may take your place amongst the Lords Temporal.”

And with that, it was done.

Thomas let out a shaky collective breath and rose to his feet in a wobbly motion. He was still nervous of losing his coronet and turned to face his family in tiny methodical steps so that he looked a bit like a ballerina on pointe.

All his worries and anxieties melted away, however, at the sight of his mother in tears. Cora Crawley was beaming, her cheeks glistening as she clasped her hands before her breast in an attempt to remain quiet. This was a private affair, one kept closeted to avoid confrontations with the press. The only applause Thomas garnered was from those who mattered most.

He smiled, nodded to no one in particular, and nearly knocked off his coronet; a quick hand saved face, but Thomas resolved not to move his head anymore until Carson took the damnable thing off of him.

 

~*~

Three hours later, Carson finally took the coronet off.

“Uh-!” Thomas let out an enormous sigh of relief, brushing away sweat which had clustered upon his brow.

Finally, back at Crawley House, Thomas had been given an hour to reprieve himself before being expected to attend a party being held in his honor at Clarence House. This was, perhaps, the greatest test of the day because while at Clarence House Thomas would be meeting (horror of horrors) their royal majesties the King and Queen of England.

It had not been his idea to do such a thing, but rather the explicit request of his grandmother. The Dowager Countess of Grantham was many things, including a bull in a china shop. She’d smashed through Thomas’ resistance, then through Robert and Cora’s worries, to finally slam her way right into the mailbox of the Queen who she’d apparently met several times during her youth. Queen Mary was all too happy to host Thomas’ coronation party, and somehow had wrangled King George to come along as well. If losing your coronet at Westminster Abbey was rough, making an ass of yourself in front of their royal majesties was something straight out of hell. To keep from thinking about it, Thomas instead focused on freshening up.

In his private chambers, Thomas was kept company by Carson and his father. Carson was the one to handle his coronet, carefully placing it in a velvet lined box where it would stay. Thomas’ coat was likewise taken off and placed in a silk lined hanging bag; both coat and cap would be put in the attic until further required.

“It is a grand day for our house to have both crowns back!” Carson declared. He’d changed back into his livery from his day suit and was now helping Thomas to put on his own set of tails. Robert had already changed and was primping a few curls of his iron gray hair in the mirror to make sure that they fell right.

“I’m glad to have it off my head,” Thomas said, tying his silk tie before Carson could make to interject. “I thought it was going to fall off. How do I look?” He turned to both men, raising his arms in a silent ‘ta da’. He was a thousand miles away from the angry and vicious footman that had once roamed the halls of Downton Abbey. Now with a family and a place in the world, Thomas was all smiles.

“Like a Crawley,” Robert declared with pride.

“Good,” Thomas let out a breath, smoothed the partition in his hair, and allowed Carson to tend the minute details in his suit.

“Health, weather, flowers, hunting…” Thomas whispered to himself, repeating the mantra that Kingsley Berry had once given to him. “Health, weather, flowers hunting. No politics, no press, no Barrows.”

As Carson stepped away to fetch a horse hair brush, Robert reached out and placed both hands upon Thomas’ shoulders to squeeze them endearingly. Though his mother had been the one to cry in Westminster, Robert now seemed close to tears himself.

“…My son,” Robert croaked, cupping Thomas’ cleanly shaven cheek to stroke the soft skin that he found. “Tonight is for you. As I give to you, we laugh. As you give to me, we cry-“ He laughed a bit at this, amazed at his own lyrical quality.

But Thomas knew his father’s bad habits. “That was a quote wasn’t it, da?”

Robert’s smile fell to be replaced by a rather guilty look.  
Sheepish, Robert said, “Don’t tell your grandmother.”

 

~*~

 

Clarence House was a stately white building, set next to St. James Palace and expansive gardens encased with tall iron fencing. It was currently the hope of Queen Victoria’s son, Prince Arthur, and so the top floors were sealed off from company to allow the private royal rooms to stay secret. The ground floors, however, were utterly packed to the rafters with noblemen who either wanted to social climb or get a good gawk at the new Viscount Downton. Thomas felt a bit like a prized bull on display, in the middle of an enormous crowd of onlookers who ooh’d and ahh’d at his every twitch. They didn’t seem to think it possible, for Thomas to hold a wine glass straight or carry on in polite conversation. In their haste to not look rude, many over complimented him to the point where Thomas wanted to hide in a broom closet to escape everyone.

The King and Queen were upstairs, sealed off from pesky onlookers by a string of royal guards in full dress who barred the main staircase. They served as awkward gargoyles over a pack of socialites, all of whom wanted to drink, dine, and dance till dawn. A classical orchestra in the corner offered a few of the more well-known dance ballads, but Thomas was free from such constraints without a date. His partner was technically Mary, who wore a gown of sparkling navy and gold. Edith complimented her in a dress of peach and silver, the pair of them wearing matching tiara’s. Edith’s date for the night was her fiancé, Bertie Pelham… a sort of silent victory for the Crawley family after all that Edith had endured.

She’d consigned herself to a life of sorrow and solitude, unwilling to imagine that Bertie might actually miss her. It had been Mary to fight for Edith’s happiness, a sort of payback for Mary’s prior nastiness, and it had worked like a charm to where Edith had phoned in the middle of the night declaring that Bertie Pelham had proposed to her after having one dinner date with her.

Talk about hook, line, and sinker.

Bertie was slightly gawkish, not that Thomas minded, and beamed pleasantly at everyone as he held Edith’s gloved hand. Thomas had yet to truly meet Bertie face to face, given that he’d been isolated from the peerage to avoid scandal, but now as a crowned Viscount Thomas was determined to get a word in to his future brother in law.

Bertie was all too glad to play along.

“Ah!” Bertie waved to Thomas and Mary as they approached. “Lord Downton!”

“Lord Hexam,” Thomas shook Bertie’s hand, noting that his grip was strong but not unpleasant.

“I heard you did magnificently today!” Bertie said, cheeky as he ribbed Thomas, “I was nervous when it was my turn.”

“I assure you, I was terrified,” There was no point in hiding from the truth.

“I’m getting a little scared myself, about the wedding-“ Bertie laughed at this, “There’s so much to be done! I don’t know how I’ll ever manage it at all.”

Maybe it was because Edith had had such a difficult love life, or maybe it was the fact that a man had already jilted her at the altar, but the sound of Bertie complaining of nerves made Thomas’ blood run cold. He leaned in a bit, smile still in place but his tone turning decidedly darker.

“Thinking of running out on my sister?” Thomas pratically spoke through clenched teeth so as to avoid being overheard by a passing lady of the peerage.

Bertie was taken aback. “No!” He blathered at once, waving a hand rapidly to sweep aside the notion. “No, god no. Nothing like that.”

“Good-“ Thomas clapped Bertie on the shoulder, holding his hand there so that he could methodically squeeze the tense muscle he found. Why was he feeling so protective of Edith all the sudden?

Edith certainly looked nervous, watching the way that Thomas kept Bertie in his grasp.

“You know, Bertie…” Thomas leaned in, making sure he could whisper in Bertie’s ear. “I can be really really mean.”

“Aha-!” Bertie let out a laugh, but Thomas could hear the fear in his voice. He patted Bertie on the shoulder again before walking away, taking Mary with him so that they could continue to mingle with the crowd. Over his shoulder, he heard Bertie wonder to Edith:

“Was he kidding?”  
“No.”

“Honestly,” Mary chided him with a gentle smile. “You’re such a protective big brother.”

“Can’t help it. Not after she got jilted before,” Thomas muttered back. Mary just squeezed his arm in silent reply. She was, after all, his compass in the turbulent seas of upper society. As they spoke with one lord, then another, it was always Mary to lead conversation with Thomas following all her social cues.

Cora swore to Thomas that one day, he would get the hang of socializing. He wasn’t too sure if he believed her.

A blond older woman wearing a gawkish pink dress was cutting her way across the floor, saying hello to almost everyone before carrying on in her haste. She was clearly looking for someone, a glass of undrunk champagne in hand and a magnetic smile upon her powdered face.

“Here comes Lady Anne Chatworth,” Mary whispered in Thomas’ ear so that none could overhear. “She’s constantly gossiping. Let me handle her. You stay silent.”

“Right,” Thomas busied himself as best he could, hiding his mouth behind the rim of his champagne glass as Lady Chatworth approached.

“My dear Lord Downton!” She beamed, thrusting out her hand so that Thomas was all but forced to take it. “Lady Mary. How wonderful to meet your brother at last. And you look so handsome! The spitting image of your dear sister!”

Thomas wondered if there was an insult hidden in Lady Chatworth’s compliment but didn’t dwell on it. “You must be terribly wound up in all this kerfuffle. Is there any news about the Barrows?”

“Only that justice will be served,” Mary answered. “Besides that, we tend not to get involved.”

It was clear that Lady Chatworth was slightly disappointed, though it only showed for a second upon her lovely face. “Oh well, I can’t say that I blame you. I tend to stay out of gossip-“

Yet before Lady Chatworth could further pester Mary for details, she caught sight of a rather aged woman in purple speaking to several other women in the corner of the room.

“Oh, do excuse me, there’s dear Lady Ingrid! She’s always in the know about something or the other. James,” She took Thomas’ hand again in a gentle shake, “Never fear to reach out to me. Your papa and I grew up together.” At this, she left, cutting yet another path in her determination to speak to Lady Ingrid.

“Papa hates her,” Mary explained.

“Yikes,” Thomas muttered into his champagne glass. Sure enough, he noticed Robert in the corner of the room avidly making himself scarce whenever Lady Chatworth got too close. In order to get away properly, Robert started walking towards Thomas and Mary, making his excuses as he went. He was far from lacking company; Cora and Edith followed too, with Bertie bringing up the trail so that half of the Crawley clan seemed to be migrating in a pack. It was a slightly odd sight to see, and would have made much more sense if Thomas had had the knowledge of who was standing behind him.

“Lord Downton-?”  
Thomas was taken aback by the appearance of a servant dressed in gilded red and gold leaf. He was a member of the royal entourage, with powdered hair and a dignified expression that seemed to scream out his English heritage.

“It’s time,” the servant said.

Thomas felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He suddenly wanted to scream and throw up, possibly simultaneously. He didn’t want to meet the King and Queen of England, but frankly didn’t think he had much of a choice in the matter. It wasn’t exactly like turning down a tea visit, was it?

Robert clapped Thomas upon the shoulder, passing all the strength and calm he could into his son. “Shall we?” Robert asked.

Thomas just stared at Robert; he had a feeling his father could intimately understand the terror his was feeling.

As one, the Crawley clan followed behind the gilded servant. They were granted passage up the main staircase, as the guards stepped aside, and headed to the second floor which was unsurprisingly quiet compared to the ruckus downstairs. Here, guards dotted the hallway like particularly ornate potted plants, each of them stony faced as the Crawleys passed. They unnerved Thomas, deeply.

They were offered passage into an ornate sitting room, which was connected by a series of double doors to what must have been the sitting room of the King and Queen. They were guarded heavily, and with rifles no less (which seemed a little over the top for a party full of brown nosing socialites).

Here, the servant stopped and turned, looking at Thomas expectantly as if he thought Thomas might suddenly get his nerve and act like a real Viscount.

“Berry never covered this,” Thomas muttered to his father. He had a feeling if Kingsley Berry was here now, he’d be nagging in Thomas’ ear to stand up straighter and keep his chin parallel to the floor.

“This is a matter of tact, Thomas. Follow their lead. Remember to address them correctly. Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Robert advised. Though it wasn’t necessary, he reached out and straightened Thomas’ lapels. Thomas was confused to find that his father’s eyes were full of tears and pride, as if he could imagine no greater honor for the Crawley family than for Thomas to meet the King and Queen.

“I don’t know what to do,” Thomas begged. Here, he was answered smoothly by the servant who seemed to have been looking for an angle in to prove his worth.

“We shall bow at the door, and then bow before them when we are finished,” the servant explained. His snooty accent was starting to rub Thomas’ nerves raw, “Never turn your back to their majesties. You will be guided.”

Oh goody. He’d be guided like a dysfunctional horse at the derby.

“Christ, this is terrifying,” Thomas hissed to his mother. “Can’t anyone go in with me?” He’d feel better then, he was certain.

“I’m afraid not. This is a special visitation, and their majesties have requested you alone,” the servant put an odd touch of cynicism upon the word ‘special’, as if he thought Thomas was unworthy of an audience from the King and Queen.

… He might have had a point, at that.

“We stand behind you,” Robert praised.

“We’re family, through and through,” Mary added. Amazing, how she was always so unshakably on his side.

“You’ll be fine,” Edith said. In a show of sudden affection, she leaned in and kissed Thomas delicately upon the cheek. It wasn’t proper, nor was it something that Thomas could return in a pinch, but it meant the world to him in that moment.

“I’m proud of you, no matter what,” Cora promised him. That was, oddly enough, the most comforting of all the comments he received. After a lifetime without a mother’s love, to know it now was an antidote to every one of Thomas’ problems.

The servant gestured for the door. Thomas followed, unsure of what else to do. As they approached the double doors, the servant gave the tiniest jerk of the head to a guard who reached up and knocked politely before opening the door and allowing the servant and Thomas to pass inside.

 

It was a bizarre sight, like something straight out of a waking hallucination.

It turned out that the double doors led into what must have been a dancing hall. The floors were made of finely polished marble and tall windows let in streaming moonlight from outside. In the center of the room sat two enormous chairs of heavily carved oak with red velvet lining. They did not appear to have been from the house originally, which made Thomas wonder if the chairs were kept in the attic for such visitations, or (queerer still) if they’d actually been brought from Buckingham Palace for the King and Queen to sit on.

And by god, they were sitting on them.

King George the fifth was not particularly terrifying, as far as men went. With finely parted hair and round eyes, his mustache and beard were perhaps the most obvious part of his character. He wore a uniform of velvet black, glittering with every award and honor Thomas assumed the British army and navy possessed. Across his broad chest was a large sash of marine blue, decorated on either side by heavy gold epaulettes.

He was staring directly at Thomas, looking mildly amused at his appearance.

The servant and Thomas bowed fluidly as one. As they walked forward with slow steps, Thomas heard the door to the sitting room close behind them. It was only then, as if jarred by the noise, that Thomas even dared to glance at the Queen sitting by King George’s side.

Queen Mary was much warmer in expression and appearance than her husband. Wearing a fine dress of white heavily embroidered in waxen gold thread, she looked like a picture straight out of 1850. Her auburn hair was so curly that it sat much like a poof upon her pale brow, wrapped tight in a delicate bun atop which her crown sat. Across her breast, just like her husband, lay a large sash of marine blue; several awards decorated her bosom, each of which glittered with inlaid diamonds. With heavy diamonds upon her throat, and even larger diamonds upon her crown, Thomas felt as if he was staring at the human personification of the gem. Like Queen Mary was so opulent and pristine that she’d been born of diamond, not of human and flesh.

Directly before the King and Queen, Thomas and the servant bowed again.

The servant stepped aside, saying softly, “Lord Downton, your majesties. Viscount of Downton.”

They just stared at him.  
Unsure of what to say, Thomas opened his mouth; nothing came out.

He took a breath, “Y-your majesties,” He managed to get out. He bowed again, unsure of whether or not it was necessarily required.

King George’s lips crooked into the tiniest smile. He raised a bushy eyebrow, regarding Thomas like he were a jester for their entertainment.

“I can see you shaking from here,” King George commented. Thomas noted that Queen Mary was less that amused; their hands were interlaced upon the arms of their thrones, and she tapped one of his fingers with her own as if silently chiding him for being ungenerous.

But Thomas could not deny his fear to either of them. “I was a footman for many years, your majesties,” Thomas said. “I am terrified.”

“Well don’t be, I’m not going to bite you,” King George grumbled. “I look at men like you as revolutionaries. The lower classes always intrigue me with their resilience. But you’re not lower class, are you?”

“No, your majesty,” Thomas said.

“No,” King George repeated. Once again Queen Mary tapped his finger delicately.

“It’s seen as tradition for men of your station to visit Buckingham Palace and dine with his majesty and myself,” Queen Mary said. Her voice was soft, like that of a butterfly flitting upon the breeze of a creek. “I assume your family will wish for you to dine, despite your age?”

“... I have no idea, your majesty,” Thomas said, though he was almost certain the answer was ‘yes’. “My grandmother is the matriarch of our family, whatever she says, I tend to have to do.”

Queen Mary smiled. “My grandmother was much the same,” She mused. “But the Dowager Countess is known to me. We were good friends in my youth, if you can imagine anyone as old as me having a youth.”

Unable to resist, Thomas said, “You look like a diamond to me, your majesty.”

The tiniest laugh tittered in the back of Queen Mary’s throat, unable to be brought forth by the standard of her breeding. Her eyes sparkled, and she clasped King George’s hand more tightly.

“Now that you’re a Viscount, what will you do?” King George asked.

“Be with my family, your majesty,” Thomas said. “It’s all that I want to do.”

“Well then-” King George grinned as he gestured slightly towards the door from which Thomas had come. “Go be with your family.”

“You’re a good sport, Lord Downton,” Queen Mary added.

“Th-...” Thomas didn’t quite know what was going on,” Thank you, your majesties?”

He stood for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“You can go now,” King George teased.

Thomas blushed, but was given a mere millisecond to feel stupid before the servant was at his side again. As the servant bowed, so too did Thomas.

Thomas turned to go, only to be stopped hard by the servant who grabbed him tight by the arm to keep him from letting his back face the King and Queen. Thomas could have kicked himself-- how had he forgotten?

They began to back up one pace at a time, with Thomas staring at the ground so as to avoid looking at King George whom he was certain was snickering at him.

 

A sudden thump upon Thomas’ right upper thigh was followed by a splintering crash-! Thomas nearly whipped around, only to be stopped by the servant again. He winced, eyes pinched tight to block out the damning evidence of the side table that he’d knocked over. It lay at his feet now, a clear victim of his idiocy.

“It’s quite alright-!” Queen Mary spoke up, jovial at Thomas’ display, “Stanley Baldwin does it all the time.”

Thomas didn’t have a clue who the fuck Stanley Baldwin was; he wanted to burst into tears for his stupidity in that moment. How could he have made such an ass of himself in front of the King and Queen?

In that moment, he wanted his mother. He felt like an errant five year old being scolded by their nanny.

“Your majesty,” Thomas croaked out. He bent, trying to pick up the table only to be stopped by the servant again.

“Don’t touch it, just leave,” The servant hissed in his ear. “You’re at the door now, turn and go.”

Thomas did so at once, cheeks bright red from embarrassment and humiliation. He all but fled the room, only to run smack into Cora and Robert who were waiting just on the other side with bright expressions.

“Well, how did it go?” Robert asked at once, beaming with pride.

Thomas crumpled, burying his face in his hands. “I knocked over a side table,” his voice was a good three pitches higher than normal.

“Oh darling-” Cora embraced him, allowing him to tuck his chin upon her shoulder. “My sweet darling.”

The servant who had bade Thomas to leave was now closing the doors to the hall. He turned to face Thomas, sweating slightly; his expression had slackened into something oddly softer than what Thomas was initially expecting.

“Many have done it, Lord Downton,” the servant told him. “You were exceptional.”

“It fell over,” Thomas said into Cora’s neck. “Everything fell over. And I called the Queen a diamond. I’m such an idiot.”

“No you’re not-” Mary said at once. She patted him tenderly upon the back, so that he stood up and wiped his eyes bitterly with the back of his hand. “Dry your eyes, it’s nothing awful.”

“I couldn’t even pick it up-!” Thomas complained, gesturing to the door as if that might explain everything.

But Cora just laughed, beaming as she cupped Thomas’ cheeks in her hands. “Thomas…” She teased.

So at least his mother still loved him; that was something.

 

 

After royally destroying a completely innocent side table, Thomas was made to head back downstairs to the party proper. He had to wonder, now that his visitation was over if the King and Queen would leave. Maybe they’d sneak out the back, draped in black cloaks and hiding in the night like thieves to avoid socialization. If Thomas was King of England, the idea would have amused him immensely. He wondered what it was like to look out upon a land and know that you owned it. And yet, he had to admonish himself because in a way he owned Downton Abbey. When he looked out upon it, all he saw was home, nothing more.

Maybe it was the same for the King and Queen, like London was just their backyard.

As Thomas glumly considered his chances of being banished for knocking over a side table, he was once again pestered by Lady Chatworth who tried to take up conversation about the King and Queen. But Thomas didn’t want to talk to her, and instead made as little comments as possible until she got bored and left him again. But the pall of gloom that Chatworth brought didn’t last long. It was replaced in an instant as another couple passed by. They seemed the sort who instantly ought to be together, the pair of them looking oddly similar and clearly in love. The man was tall, thin, with a slender waist and finely parted gray hair. The woman at his side was just as tall, though her hair still held a tinge of brown upon it. They spotted Thomas and Mary, and promptly made a beeline for them with warm smiles.

“Ah, now here are friendly faces,” Mary assured him, “Lord and Lady Ringwall.”

“So, we like the Ringwalls?” Thomas asked.

“They’re distantly related to us,” Mary explained. “They live in South Yorkshire and often make pleasantries with papa and mama.”

Now that Thomas thought of it, the name of Ringwall sounded familiar. Perhaps he’d had to cater to them when he’d been a servant.

“Mary-!” Lord Ringwall reached them first, and though he did not offer his hand for Mary to take, it was obvious that he was much warmer and more forgiving than Lady Chatworth.

“My dear cousin,” suddenly the aura of exhaustive wariness was evaporated to be replaced by a comfortable companionship. Even the champagne felt easier to swallow.

“We haven’t met yet, James,” Lord Ringwall offered his hand for Thomas to shake. “Though your papa tells me to call you Thomas.”

“Only to transition easier, Lord Ringwall,” Thomas said.

“Please!” Lord Ringwall wouldn’t hear of it, raising a hand in a stopping motion. “I’m Adam to you. We’re cousins, as I’m sure Mary has told you. And this is my wife, Beatrice-“

Lady Ringwall (or Beatrice, rather) looked upon Thomas with shining eyes, and took up his hand in both of her own as if to squeeze into him all the kindness that was within her.

“Thomas, I cannot tell you how grateful and ahppy I am to have you home at last,” She said. “We shed many a tear when you were lost to us.”

“It was a dark time for our family,” Adam agreed. “And still we are not all together. I hear Shrimpy couldn’t make it tonight. Something about Susan?”

“He’s been having a hard time at social events,” Mary explained.

“Can’t say that I blame him,” Beatrice muttered, hiding an insult as she took a sip of champagne,” Odious woman, and divorce didn’t make it any easier. But dear Rose is married now, and that’s what matters. All the chicks have flown the nest.”

But at this, a sudden spark of inspiration hit Beatrice. She looked up at Thomas with sparkling eyes, a strangle little smile creeping at the corner of her lips. “Tell me, Thomas, are you courting yet?”

Thomas almost choked on his champagne. When had the conversation gone off the rails. In his spluttering, he babble out the quickest excuse he could think of. “I c-confess no-“

“Well-!” Beatrice was off and running, now starting to bounce upon her heels a bit in her enthusiasm, “I simply must introduce you to our daughter Elizabeth. She’s just been introduced at court, and she’s a natural beauty! A spectacular singer too-“

“I-“ Thomas could see the entire conversation going up in flames. “I’m sure-“

“Will you call on her?” Beatrice asked. So hopeful and kind was she that Thomas was terrified of shooting her down. He looked to Mary for salvation, and found it.

“Let’s allow Thomas to get a little more settled before we start with courtships,” Mary urged.

Beatrice let out a tisking sigh, touching her forehead as if lamenting having forgot something. “Of course, of course. Forgive me. I’m a proud mama. I shan’t trouble you with it anymore. But when you’re ready to start looking, I certainly have a young lady in mind. Oh-!”

Beatrice seemed to have spotted someone over Thomas shoulder. She held up a hand, waving to whomever she saw. “Duke-!”

Thomas and Mary looked around, only for Thomas to freeze like a rabbit at the sight of the encroaching lord.

It had been nearly fifteen years since Thomas had seen Philip Prevet, and though there were a few things about him which had changed there were many more which had remained the same. His hair was grayer now, his face more lined, but there was still a dark and feral look in his eyes thinly masked by politeness. Everything about him looked pained, like walking physically hurt him. Thomas could not imagine how he’d become so exhausted; surely, he hadn’t served during the war. But even if Philip had kept out of France, he still looked like he’d been fighting a personal battle for the past decade and losing.

The sight of his first flame, of the man he’d shed his virginity to, put a violent flame into Thomas’ already weak stomach. Long, long ago, when Thomas had been young and foolish, he’d looked to Philip like a golden idol. Philip had been just as sharp as he, and yet still somehow able to weather the storms of life. He’d been unstoppable, unbeatable, and Thomas had been unable to resist the allure of his charms. His flesh had been young, his spirit willing, and he’d all but tripped over his feet to fall into Philip’s bed. They’d been star crossed lovers for about a year… and then?

Then everything had fallen apart.

“Duke, you simply must meet Thomas.” Beatrice declared, “He’s charming!”

Philip gave him a tense smile that didn’t quite meet his yes. “I’m sure,” he said. The sound of his voice, after so many years going without, put a shudder up Thomas’ spine. It was like a ghost from his past had walked into the sitting room.

“Ah, your father wants up-“ Adam noticed Robert gesturing to them from the corner of the room. “I shan’t keep the pair of you but do call on us again when you’re home.”

“Certainly, we shall,” Mary said. “And do give our love to Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I will!” Beatrice was still bubbling with pride. “And so much more-“ She added, winking to Thomas as she left.

Philip regarded all of this in silence, waiting until Adam and Beatrice were out of earshot to speak again.

“Already sporting a dance card?” Philip asked.

“…Comes with the territory,” Thomas replied. He wondered if Mary could hear the tension in his voice.

“…Do we know one another?” Mary asked. Clearly, she’d gathered that Thomas was unhappy.

But too much lay between he and Philip to have simple conversation in front of his twin. Thomas turned to Mary, handing her his champagne glass. “Mary, could you talk to Lady Beatrice and see if you can’t get her to relinquish her goal with her daughter?”

“Not to worry,” Mary promised. She passed off Thomas’ finished flute to a footman before saying, “Shall I leave you here?”

“Let’s go to the gallery,” Philip said. “It’s quieter there.”

Mary bristled; clearly the idea of Thomas and Philip being alone did not sit well with her. “As you wish, but don’t dawdle. This party is for you.”

As she left, Philip leaned in and whispered in Thomas’ ear. The near contact made him feel violently ill. “Come with me.”

The pair of them skirted around the edge of the party, leaving the sitting room to cross the main hall where several couples were dancing to walk down a slightly darkened hallway. Here, more tea rooms sat keeping company to much smaller parties of couples and family friends. At the far end sat a closed door, which Philip opened to reveal a darkened gallery. The only light which illuminated the room came from the moon and the lamps on the street. As Philip closed the door, the pair of them were suddenly sparring in a silent arena.

It made Thomas terribly uncomfortable, to be alone with a man he’d once loved. A echoes of his betrayal and Philip’s cruelty lay between them like shards of broken glass, making it impossible for either to tread forward.

“Why shut the door?” Thomas asked. “Scared of being seen with a lowly Viscount?”

“I wanted to speak with you frankly away from the others,” Philip replied. “Did you know you were a Crawley when we were together?”

Oh but it was too easy to be cruel, to flirt with arrogance as he slowly walked about the perimeter of the room to examine paintings in the dark. “Were we together?” He cast a sly glance over his shoulder. “I could have sworn it was nothing more than a dalliance. Your words, not mine.”

“All this time,” Philip had the nerve to sound wounded. “And that’s what you want to say to me?”

“I could ask the same,” Thomas snapped.

Philip sighed, looking down at his polished shoes before raking a hand through his graying hair. For a moment, the pair of them were in silence, their shared nastiness lingering in the air like a foul smell.

“When I learned… I was gobsmacked,” Philip admitted.

“Many were,” Thomas noted that Philip sounded oddly contrite. To be fair, he felt a little poorly too.

“…Did you know?” Philip asked again; he dared to look back up at Thomas, and found him watching from across the room.

“No,” Thomas whispered back. “I never suspected.”

“I read the paper several times over,” Philip said. “I ended up ruining the pagers and had to get my man to fetch another…” He raked his hand through his hair once again; it seemed to have become a stress relief to him. “Thomas, I’m so sorry for all that you’ve been through.”

“Really,” Thomas didn’t believe him. They hadn’t seen each other in years; did Philip really expect Thomas to imagine there was emotion between them? “I thought it would be just deserts for a greedy footman. Kidnap and mental abuse.”

“You certainly weren’t above blackmail, even if you had been kidnapped.”

“How much do you pay your man?” Thomas asked. His tone was sharp, rising above Philip’s so that an unnatural silence fell.

“I beg your pardon?” he wondered.

“Probably thirty pounds a year?” Thomas mused. That sounded about right for a valet; it’s what he’d made with Robert in any event.

When Philip did not reply, Thomas touched the satin lapel of his dining tux; the texture was oddly sharp beneath his sensitive fingertips. It was like being around Philip put all his senses on edge.

“This suit costs over a year’s worth of his wages,” Thomas said. “Nearly two. I wonder what he would have done, if you gave him that sort of money. Something tells me he wouldn’t buy clothes.”

And oh, how bitter he felt to remember the horrors of being poor, of being small. Of watching Philip throw his love letters in a burning fireplace, and knowing he had no way of proving they’d once been in love.

Had it been wrong to try and blackmail Philip? Quite.  
Would Thomas have actually been willing to go through with it? … Probably not.

“Your status as a servant had nothing to do with your inability to handle a breakup,” Philip warned him. “You were always a bad loser.”

Thomas snorted.

“Maybe not,” He said; he had to concede in his youth he’d been a slight berk. “But it certainly had something to do with why I was so desperate to hang on.”

Thomas had had enough of this conversation. He didn’t even know why he’d allowed it to begin in the first place. Some sardonic edge inside of him had wanted to let the nasty out, had wanted to play with black aces like he’d done when he was young. But now, only five minutes into the conversation, Thomas was exhausted. There was nothing more to say to Philip. Nothing more to be done. Whatever might have existed between them was lost. Now, the pair of them were left on opposite sides of a chasm, wondering if they’d ever loved at all.

“I could have sworn you said you wanted to be with me,” Philip said.

Maybe he had, but that was none of Philip’s business.

“Y’know, Philip,” Thomas could not help the sardonic edge in his voice. “Those who’ve never been in danger could never understand the value of safety.”

He headed for the door, making absolutely certain to brush crudely against Philip’s shoulder as he passed so as to physically knock the man out of the way. It felt good to be rude, to gain some sort of edge over Philip when really he wanted to scream at him from the top of his lungs.

“Thomas-” Philip tried to grab his hand as Thomas opened the door to the hall. Thomas jerked his hand freed, “Thomas, I just want to talk to you-!” The anger in Philip’s voice gave Thomas a sense of bizarre righteousness.

“God forbid you put it in writing,” Thomas did not even bother to look back at Philip as he left. Their conversation was far from finished, but Thomas had a feeling that if left alone with his first love for too long he would be liable to say or do something he regretted. There was far too much baggage associated with their romance for them to simply ‘talk’. They would either end up fighting or snogging. Neither would be helpful for their situations.

 

~*~

 

Midnight rang out upon London, and found the Crawleys riding home in their respective cars. Grantham House was as appealing to Thomas a crypt, and he wanted to fling himself upon the first bed he saw to die there and never be bothered again. He was still miserably considering what the social fall out would be from knocking over a side table. Next to him in the car, Mary was dozing with her head upon his shoulder. Across the seat from them sat Robert and Cora. Edith had taken her own car with Bertie so that she might stop at her magazine for her briefcase. How she could possibly be thinking about work during this ungodly hour was something Thomas couldn’t understand.

“...You were magnificent,” Robert whispered. Next to him, Cora was dozing just like Mary. Every so often, her dark eyes would open to gaze upon the foggy streets of gas-lit London.

“I knocked over a side table,” Thomas whispered back, “And I called the Queen a diamond.”

“Why?” Robert asked.

“She said something like ‘I’m old’. So I said she looked like a diamond… and she did. She was dripping in them,” Thomas mused. Robert just smiled.

“All women enjoy being reminded of their beauty,” He said. “You were right to complement her majesty.”

“I think King George thinks I’m an idiot,” Thomas said.

“Hardly,” Robert said. “The King is an incredibly intelligent man. Compared to him, we very well all be fools.”

Thomas wasn’t so sure he agreed with his father on that.

 

Upon pulling into the cobblestone drive of Grantham House, it was evidently apparent that Carson was waiting up for them. He and Andy were the lone guardians of the house, illuminated by the lights of the main hall so that their shadows cast elongated grooves of darkness onto the stone. Carson was more enormous than ever, stiff in his spats as the chauffeur pulled the car around and put it in park to let the Crawley clan out. Andy opened the door, so that both Cora and Mary were let out yawning and stumbling onto the pavement. Robert and Thomas were close behind, with the second car pulling in just as they made it to the front steps. Edith and Bertie were quick to get out, with Edith clutching her briefcase in her gloved hands. She looked a comedic site, every bit a lady until you got to the leather folder in her silk gloved hands.

“My lord,” Carson greeted them, “Good tidings?”

“I knocked over a table in front of the king-” Thomas complained, only to be cut off by his father who waved an errant hand to shut Thomas up.

“Thomas is being silly,” Robert declared. In the front hall, he shed his cloak and top hat for Carson to take while Andy helped Mary, Cora, and Edith out of their coats. Bertie and Thomas hung back, not nearly as demanding as their relatives.

“He knocked into a side table while exiting backwards,” Robert explained. “He was exceptional. The greatest. But I’m utterly dashed, Carson. To bed, all!”

His word was a good as law. One by one, the Crawley clan began to climb the main spiral staircase, each of them more exhausted than the last.

“I’m utterly bushed,” Mary sighed.

“Goodnight, Mary” Thomas said, giving her the gentlest kiss on the cheek as she passed. Mary just gave him a sweet smile in return, much too sleepy for sentimentality. Edith was next, offering him a cheeky if adoring smile.

“No kiss for me?” She teased. Thomas answered her with a kiss all her own, which she received with a tender smile. “I know you’re Mary’s twin, but you’re also my brother and I was terribly proud of you tonight.”

“Good to know,” Thomas said. Up Edith went, leaving a glittering trail behind her from the train of her gown.

“My darling…” Cora was behind her daughters, and she embraced Thomas lovingly as she sighed upon his shoulder. “How proud I was of you.”

“Thomas was an absolute success,” Robert told Carson, even as Carson locked up the front door and began to dim the lights in the front hall.

“No I wasn’t-” Thomas started, only to be shushed with a finger upon his lips. Cora drew back her hand with a smile when Thomas finally hushed.

“Not another word out of you,” she teased.

“Then we shall rejoice downstairs, M’lord,” Carson said.

“And I shall rejoice upstairs in my bed,” Robert yawned. Thomas and Bertie were the last to go up, the pair of them elbow to elbow as the hall plunged into darkness behind them.

“If it makes you feel any better, I tripped,” Bertie offered to Thomas.

“It helps a bit,” Thomas shrugged. “But I still got the feeling the King thought I was an idiot.”

“Yes, he does have that effect on people.”

At the top of the stairs, each of the Crawley clan took to their separate rooms, save for Cora and Robert who both entered the master bedroom only to shut the door promptly. Thomas headed for his own room, rubbing at the back of his neck where an ache was beginning to form.

Upon finding solitude in his room, Thomas did not ring for Bates to undress him. Instead, he undressed himself, reasoning that it was late and not worthy of Bates’ time. With every layer of posh clothing that he shed, Thomas felt more and more like he was slipping back into his old skin. It was easy to dress in the bedclothes of his servant days (something that he held onto without his parent’s knowledge) and to feel normal. To feel like the Thomas Barrow that had once haunted the halls of the downstairs…. not the Thomas Crawley that tripped up in front of the King and Queen of England.

Despite all that he’d imagined of being upper class, there were actual issues that needed to be faced. It wasn’t all tea and naps with glittering balls thrown in for good measure. There were strict societal rules that had to be followed, and when one slipped up gossip was sure to follow. Gossip for servants was like the evening newspaper. For an upper class man, gossip was utter catastrophe.

Thomas undid his waxen shoelaces, taking his oxfords to the door so that he could set them outside for the lone hallboy to collect. When he opened the door, however, he was greeted shockingly by the sight of Bates who had Robert’s evening coat over his shoulder. He gave Thomas a wry smile, elbowing his way past so that he could begin collecting Thomas’ suit from the clotheshorse where Thomas had lain it.

Thomas gave a haggard sigh, dropping his shoes outside the door and shutting it.

“I don’t need help,” Thomas said.

“I’m not helping you, I’m doing my job,” Bates replied breezily. “How did it go tonight?”

“I knocked a fucking table over in front of the fucking King of England, that’s how it went-” Thomas groaned, falling into an armchair by his personal fire to warm his aching feet. Bates blinked, unfazed by Thomas’ brusque language.

“So, good?” Bates summed up.

“The others seem to think so,” Thomas grumbled. “But the King is a weird one. Makes you feel like you’re an idiot. How’s everyone downstairs? Baxter alright?”

“Fine enough,” Bates shrugged. He wasn’t one to dwell on the affairs or emotions of others. “As far as the others, we’re ready to fall over.”

“God I hope they let you sleep in tomorrow.”

“Fat chance, with Carson in charge.”

Still, Bates did not leave. Thomas glanced at the man, wondering what he was waiting on, only to find Bates holding out a waxen envelope for him to take.

“What’s this?” Thomas asked. He took the postage, flipping it over to reveal the address to Grantham House. When had this come?

“It came for you about half an hour ago,” Bates said.

“So late…?” Thomas wondered. He slid his thumb beneath the heavy seal bearing an ornate ‘P’, and opened the letter to pull out, of all things, what appeared to be a page ripped from a novel.

 


	2. Arion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas rides out a hurricane and decides he likes it very much. The hurricane may or may also be fond of him; the jury is still out.  
> Meanwhile, Philip Prevet has an offer Thomas is loathe to refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings today! However, **you will see a photograph that is not mine**. All rights belong to the photographer **Katarzyna Orkzesik-Mikotajek** , who runs a portfolio out of her website [Photo Equine](https://photo-equine.com) I urge my followers to take a peek at her website; absolutely gorgeous photographs!

Despite knocking over a side table in front of the King of England, and calling the Queen a ‘diamond’, Thomas Crawley did not suffer massive social fall out and instead returned to Downton Abbey with a pep in his step. The brisk air of autumn was full of falling leaves, and every conversation seemed to turn to hunting parties and the dinners that would follow. As Robert’s valet and first footman, Thomas had often participated in hunts to help Robert load his rifle. This time, he would be able to enjoy the hunt as a Crawley. He enjoyed hunting, at least to the extent which made it a sport, but Thomas’ personal excitement had nothing to do with wearing his reds for the first time or chatting up handsome men at hunting dinners.

No, Thomas Crawley was much more excited about meeting his new ‘best friend’.

At first, Thomas had been terribly unnerved at the thought of owning a stallion. He knew nothing about horses, and had imagined it to be an insurmountable obstacle to owning one. He didn’t know what horses ate, how they behaved, and what made them happy. In order to remedy the situation, Thomas had decided to peruse his father’s library and pull out every book on horses that he could find. He’d poured through one copy after another, only to learn more about horse lore than fact. But just when Thomas had gotten to the point of fearing that he might as well give up on owning a horse altogether, he’d suddenly remembered something very important.

He was a Crawley.  
He didn’t have to know anything about a horse. That was what the groomsman was for.

The groomsman was a portly and pleasant fellow named Harry Colton, who was about Mr. Carson’s age, but twice as spry. The man spent every day running up and down the length of the Crawley stables, caring for every horse inside like they were his own children. He knew so much about horses, it was a miracle he hadn’t turned into one himself. The age was over when the Crawley’s were chauffeured with horses, but they still kept up a stable and charges for the sake of public eye and for personal pleasure. This was where Mr. Colton came in.

So all Thomas had to do was mention “I’m getting a horse”, and quite suddenly preparations were underway for Thomas’ own horse to join Mary’s, Edith’s, and Robert’s. Cora did not own a horse, nor did she want to. Now there were an even four horses to belong to the Crawley family, and Mr. Colton was utterly delighted.

The day that Thomas’ new horse was set to arrive was a crisp October morning, and the sky was utterly blue. This delighted Thomas, and he took great pleasure in inhaling copious amounts of clean air from his bedroom window before dressing in the simplest pair of trousers that he owned. The last suit he’d ever worn as a member of staff was now threadbare and good for nothing save hard labor. What remained of the finer threads in the trousers were gone, making them soft and pliable yet unable to hold a crease. His white shirtsleeves were stained, even after heavy starching and scrubbing by the maids, so he’d been forced to retire it unless he wanted to run amuck outside.

And today, Thomas Crawley was running amuck outside.

He descended the main stairs of his ancestral home, feeling at peace and yet delighted all at once. Breakfast was being served in the dining hall by Carson alone, who presided over the buffet table like he was king of it. Thomas still felt uneasy around Carson most of the time, but tried not to dwell on it as he loaded up a plate full of bacon and poached eggs.

His father, at the head of the table, gave a start when he noticed Thomas’ garb.

“Thomas!” He grumbled. “What are you wearing?”

“I can’t meet a horse in a suit, da,” Thomas sat down at the table across from Mary, who was halfway through her copy of the Sketch with a knowing smirk, “They’re messy animals.”

“I’m not sure what you mean by ‘meet a horse’,” Robert shrugged, taking a sip of coffee.

“Well I want to make sure that I make the best first impression,” Thomas said. What kind of horse would respect him if he showed up in a Woolcox suit?

On Mary’s left sat Tom Branson, who was grinning at Thomas like he found him amusing. “It’s not a debutante ball. How hard could it be?”

Thomas did not like Tom Branson, even though it wasn’t entirely fair of him to be irritable with the man. There was something about him which always put Thomas on edge. He was too positive, too optimistic, always screaming about change and revolution. Neither were easy to come by, in Thomas’ opinion, and Branson just seemed naive to insist otherwise.

Thomas did not look at Branson as he replied. “You were a chauffeur to a motorcar. A car can’t kick your teeth out.”

“And you think this car will?” Branson asked.

“I always like to be prepared,” Thomas said. He hoped it showed in his voice that he was reaching the end of his patience.

Trying to save the table from an argument she could sense was coming, Mary interjected. “This is new, or rather old-” She smiled, nodding to Thomas’ broken down suit. “I suppose you’re excited about your horse?”

“I’m ready,” Thomas agreed, gobbling up an egg. “I’ve decided just to throw away all those old garbage books about owning horses, and go about this the natural way!” He even added a smile, just for show.

“And what, pray tell, is the natural way?” Robert asked.

“I’m going to jump in with the horse, and fight it like a man.” Thomas said, gently curling his fist and tapping it against the top of the table. Robert blinked.

“Well in that case, I’d better call Grisby’s,” Tom joked.

“Don’t be so saucy,” Thomas sneered. “I might be a different sort of man, but I’m still a man. I can wrestle with the beasts. I was Carson’s first footman, after all!”

Unable to resist, Robert turned about in his chair to address his butler. “Carson! Do you think Thomas stands a chance against the horse?”

Carson’s lips were pursed into a thin white line as he held back his ire. “I pity the horse he faces, M’lord.”

Thomas just took a long sip of orange juice, maintaining eye contact with his father every minute. Robert did not look hopeful.

 

Despite a lack of faith from his father, Thomas was more than ready to do battle by the time that ten o’clock rolled by. In the coral, Thomas paced back and forth with his shirt sleeves rolled up and his boots laced tight to the shin. Mary kept him company, relaxing upon the wooden links of the coral while Thomas made a show of kicking a pebble across the dust. He’d succeeded in kicking the pebble all the way to the other side and was just getting started on turning it back around to kick it over to Mary, when the sound of a motorcar pulling up the drive gave Thomas and Mary pause. A large wagonette dragging a trailer was rumbling up the gravel, teamed by a group of four farm hands who looked delighted to be riding on top. It was almost certainly illegal, and probably just as much fun; when the wagonette came to a stop before the stables and coral, one lad nearly fell off and had to be held on by the belt loop.

At once, Mr. Colton puttered up to the driver side of the wagonette, and shook hands with the driver through the window. Thomas had zero interest in the driver, and was instead leaning heavily on the coral links to see through the slats of the trailer. Something inside was huffing and puffing.

“Finally,” Mary said. “I wonder why it took them so long to get here.”

But the answer was shortcoming.

As the wagonette reversed itself into a three point turn, the back of the trailer came to swing around right to the coral’s door. Mr. Colton was in the middle of preparing of tack to help steer Thomas’ new horse when quite suddenly a thunderous ‘bang’ shook the air.

Something had just kicked the trailer door, leaving a sizable dent from the inside.

The driver hopped out of the car, coming around the side of the trailer with Mr. Colton, who took one quick look from Thomas to the driver to promptly ask, “Was that the horse?”

“It’s not a horse, it’s a demon,” The driver replied.

At once, Thomas broke into a grin. A demon horse? How delightful! This day couldn’t get any more better.

“Open it!” Thomas begged. “Open the door I want to see him!”

The driver looked none too sure.

“It took us three hours to wrangle him up,” The driver said. “Once we let him out, I doubt we’ll be able to get him back in again-”

“Good!” Thomas was all but bouncing on his heels at this point. “Let him out and let’s get this party started!”

The driver and Mr. Colton worked as a team, each of them taking a side of the trailer to unlock and pull the back gate. As it swung open, it revealed the dark interior which was layered in hay. In the middle of the floor was a massive pile of horse shit, which seemed to serve as a middle finger to all who gazed upon it.

The owner of that middle finger was a magnificent, massive, furious, dapple gray thoroughbred.

“Good heavens!” Mary gasped, “Look at the size of him! He’s twice as big as Diamond!”

Mary’s horse held no comparison to Thomas’. He was, by far, the most beautiful creature that Thomas had ever seen. His wrath only made him more enticing. Even as Mr. Colton attempted to put a lead over the horse’s neck, he bolted, kicking and whinnying furiously. His speed was so intense that Thomas had no choice but to leap and roll, crashing into the dirt with his elbows up about his face so as to avoid injury. He rolled, knees curled to his chest, and scrambled back to his feet with dirt on his face to see the horse now on the opposite side of the coral, bucking at nobody in particular. When he finally managed to gain control of his temper, the horse snorted and turned, pawing vigorously at the dirt beneath him.

He whinnied, all but shrieking into the air.  
_“Fuck you!”_ the horse seemed to say.

Thomas beamed.

“Cor, what a beast!” The driver cried out.

“I think this is a mistake,” Mary begged, walking around the coral to speak to Colton and the driver, “Perhaps we should take up another horse-?”

“I wouldn’t blame you, M’lady!” Colton said. “My father got his head kicked in from a horse like that!”

But Thomas wouldn’t hear it. He angrily waved a hand at all of them, forcing them to shush, “Wait- wait…!” Thomas was still beaming. But why? Why was he so happy to meet this horrendous horse?

“Leave us,” Thomas said. He wanted privacy, to meet this beast man to man and have a conversation that wasn’t dominated by rules or etiquette.

“But Thomas-!” Mary begged.

“Go back to the house, all of you,” Thomas said. “I can handle this by myself. An’ shut the gate too!”

“M’lord, I can’t in good conscience leave you!” Colton said. “That horse is straight out of hell, it’ll eat you up!”

“Fine then, you stay, everyone else go!” Thomas said. He glanced over his shoulder to find Mary and the driver eyeing one another with uncertainty.

Mary sighed, raising up her hands defensively before turning away. The driver shrugged, offering paperwork for Mr. Colton to sign while Mary bitterly headed back to the house. As soon as Mr. Colton offered his signature, the wagonette and trailer began to load back up. The farm hands were crawling all over the frame of the car, like ticks in the ear of a dog as Mr. Colton shut the gate to the coral.

The wagonette headed off back down the road, so that quite suddenly it was just Mr. Colton, Thomas, and this utterly magnificent beast.

It snorted, pawing at the dirt again. It seemed to be sizing Thomas up, ready to charge him.

“...Aye…” Thomas whispered, a hand up as he took one step forward, then another. “You an’ me.”

Another step. Yet another step.  
The horse whinnied, rearing up on its back legs as if to strike Thomas forcibly with his front legs. Thomas did not stop walking forward. The horse slammed back to earth, its front feet so heavy and powerful that it left visible craters in the dust beneath.

Thomas’ good mood was infectious. He reached out, and with the barest tips of his fingers he touched the horse’s dappled nose. It felt like warm velvet.

The horse snorted, jolting a bit. Thomas did not move his hand, so that when the horse brought its nose back down Thomas was still there to pet him.

“Ey… you and me, me and you,” Thomas promised. A man to man conversation, that was all this was. “No one else.”

The horse snorted.

“What’s your problem, eh?” Thomas asked, far from accusatory. “Mad at the world?” The horse jolted a bit, far less stressed than before.

“I’m mad too,” Thomas agreed. “People think that I’m barmy, but I’m just furious, an’ so are you. I can see that now.”

The horse blinked, its long eyelashes cutting strips upon its milky face. “So what’ll it be?” Thomas asked. The horse sniffed, seeming to consider Thomas’ offer.

“We fight it out? The bigger beast wins?” Thomas asked. “Or…” He took a step forward, pressed against the flank of the thoroughbred. He petted down the horse’s neck and back, thoroughly enjoying the beautiful coat beneath his fingers. The dapple reminded Thomas of heavy storm clouds rolling in overhead.

“Or maybe you an’ I, we might come to some sort of agreement?” Thomas whispered in the horse’s ear. “Be friendly like. Fight the world together.” He rubbed Arion’s nose again, revelling in the thrill of the horse leaning into his hand. All his earlier anger seemed to have dissipated at Thomas’ willingness to put up with his shitty attitude. Confronted by a human that did not want to rope him into submission, the horse seemed unsure of what to do next.

Fortunately for him, Thomas had an idea.

The horse had no saddle yet, nor any reigns with which for Thomas to hold onto. Instead, Thomas had no choice but to take up the horse’s black mane for a grip and use the links of the coral wall as his stirrups.

He climbed atop the horse’s back. By god, he was a giant! The world seemed so small, all of a sudden. So small and yet to wide… and all theirs for the claiming.

“Christ, he’s nineteen hands high,” Colton said in amazement, looking at the paperwork he’d signed with wonder. “That’s giant! I’ve never catered to such a massive beast before.”

When Colton looked up and found Thomas on the horse’s back, he gave a start and dropped his clipboard.

“Lord Downton!” Mr. Colton cried out. “You must come down from there! It’s unsafe without reigns or a saddle! Your father will be furious if you’re harmed.”

But Thomas cared nothing for his father’s will in that moment. His head was spinning with all the lore of horses that he’d been cramming for the past week.

One myth in particular seemed to fit; that of a horse so furious and swift that even Homer had felt it important to make note of him. Arion, the swift horse of Adrastus, of heavenly stock. The horse of Poseidon, so fast and dangerous that it had managed to outlive the battle of the Argives and save the king as well.

Thomas leaned down, whispering into the horse’s ear. “Show me why they fear you, Arion.”

Arion snorted, and promptly decided he’d had just about enough of Thomas sitting on his back.

He bolted, with such speed and dexterity that Thomas was nearly thrown. In order to stay on, Thomas had to hold tight to Arion’s mane and press himself flat against Arion’s mane, thighs squeezed tight to Arion’s sides as Arion leapt clean over the gates of the coral. Mr. Colton screamed after him, waving his hands desperately as his voice disappeared in a rush of wind:

“Lord Downton! Lord Downton-!!”

But this- this was easy! This was wonderful! Thomas had never known such delights before, to be astride the back of a beast so dangerous that it seemed to have been crafted of heaven not earth. Arion charged over the hills of Downton’s front lawn, as if trying to out pace Thomas. But still Thomas held on, even as they rode right back Mary who came running out onto the front steps with Cora.

“Thomas-!” Cora screamed after him, the fear in her voice overly apparent.

As if to frighten Cora more, Arion promptly slammed on the breaks to begin bucking wildly. Now Thomas was back to pressing himself flat to Arion’s neck, holding on as tightly as he could while Arion tired himself out. He bucked once, twice- three times!

And then he whinnied, exhausted by the forray. Thomas straightened up, a sheen of sweat having broken out across his brow.

“Aha!” Thomas laughed, patting Arion’s neck in a show of good sportsmanship. “That was good! You made your point, now allow me to make mine?”

He carefully fisted Arion’s mane, turning his neck to the left so that Arion was forced to turn back towards Downton Abbey where Cora and Mary were now running out onto the lawn.

“Oh look, my terrified family,” Thomas mused. “Let’s go greet them.”

He dug his heels in, toes pointed to the sky in an awkward position. Sure enough, despite his snorting and fussing, Arion began to walk forward.

And to think, Thomas had survived the test! Thomas felt as if he’d passed some galant trial, and his reward was Arion’s begrudging respect. As they mounted a rolling hill, Mary and Cora came alongside Arion and Thomas, panting slightly.

“Thomas!” Mary exclaimed. “Are you alright?!”

“I’m fantastic,” Thomas declared, calmly patting Arion’s neck. In the distance, Mr. Colton was running over as fast he could, clutching a reign in his sweaty hands.

“And so is Arion!” Thomas added, carefully tucking a stray bit of black mane out of Arion’s eyes. It felt like straw beneath his fingers.

“Arion?” Cora stuttered.

“The first, fabled horse,” Thomas explained to his mother. “No beast was most swift or mean. And I like him just fine!” he added, patting Arion’s neck again. “We’re good friends now, aren’t we.”

Arion snorted.

“Thomas that was terribly dangerous,” Cora said. Her brown eyes were shining, filled with fear. “You could have been killed.”

“Maybe,” Thomas agreed. “But Arion needed to see that I’m not scared of him.”

“Well I am,” Mary grumbled.

“Well you’re not riding him!” Thomas cut across. With a smile, he carefully nudged at Arion’s side again so that they started walking off towards the coral and Mr. Colton. “If you need me, we’ll be in the barn brushing.”

He left his mother and sister on the lawn, both staring after him as if he was mad.

 

 

To say that Thomas adored Arion was an understatement. He was ready to both shoot and take a bullet for the horse only one day after having claimed him.

Mr. Colton, despite being proficient in horse care, was still nervous of getting within biting distance of Arion. He had a nasty habit of trying to snip at anyone who wasn’t Thomas, and would get incredibly territorial of his stall. Mary’s horse Diamond watched all of this, thoroughly unimpressed, and promptly turned her back on Arion to take a shit in his general direction. Clearly their relationship would need some working on.

Thomas was left to follow Mr. Colton’s instructions from a distance, brushing Arion to then lace a bridle around his muzzle. Next came reigns, which Arion was less enthused about but tolerated with bitter resignation. Thomas allowed Arion to cover him with filth, as the horse bit on clumps of hay only to lift his neck up high and dump it on Thomas’ head. He was cheeky, and no mistake, but Thomas took it all in his stride. He even put up a salt lick in Arion’s stall, and offered him a shire ball with carrots sticking out. Mr. Colton was less than enthused.

“He needs training, Lord Downton,” Mr. Colton complained, “Not treats.”

“I shan’t hear of such lunacies,” Thomas said, calmly brushing Arion’s coat for the fifth time that day.

It was around six in the afternoon when Thomas finally decided to let Arion be so that he might return to the house to change for dinner. He was cutting it terribly close, and he could see pale pink beginning to cut a swath through the dusky sky. he’d have to bathe before he’d be presentable; speed would be of the essence tonight.

As he entered the main hall, Thomas was strikingly aware of how filthy he was. He unlaced his boots on the stoop, and carried them in his hands to avoid getting mud on the entrance hall carpet. He probably stank to high heaven, and wondered how long it would take for Carson to sniff him out (quite literally).

“Thomas-!” Cora had poked her head out of the pink sitting room only to find her errant son returned from his adventure. She attempted to embrace him, only to be stopped when Thomas held out a hand in warning.

“Don’t I’ll stain your dress,” He said, gesturing with his muddied shoes.

“I saw you galloping with that wild beast,” Cora said. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine, just filthy,” Thomas said. “I’ve gotta have a bath and quick before dinner.”

“Oh-!” Cora was suddenly struck with something she must have forgotten. “That reminds me, we received a call while you were in the barn. We’re having a few guests tonight for dinner, just Lord and Lady Merton, but also the Duke of Crowborough.”

For a moment, Thomas could not comprehend what his mother had said, and begged her to repeat it, “I’m sorry, what-?”

“The Duke of Crowborough,” Cora repeated with a smile. “He’s an old acquaintance but we haven’t had him over since- oh, Carson-!”

The butler had arrived, no doubt drawn from the downstairs by the stench of Thomas’ armpits. The butler approached with a crinkled nose, dismayed at Thomas’ filthy appearance.

“I shall fetch Mr. Bates,” Carson said.

“No, don’t-” Thomas said. “I can bathe myself, I’m not a toddler-”

“As you wish, Lord Downton-” Carson’s tone was clipped, a warning sign that his patience was beginning to drain.

“And don’t call me that!” Thomas added. “I’m beggin’ you-!”

“Then beg,” Was Carson’s swift response.

Thomas blinked, taken aback. That was not the answer he’d been expecting, and it created such a turn of power that Thomas didn’t know what to say in response.

“As I say,” Cora looked close to laughing at Thomas’ confused expression. “We have important company tonight, so look your best.”

As Cora turned and left, Carson held out his hand as if to take Thomas’ shoes. Thomas pulled back.

“I’ll wash th-” Thomas tried to say, but Carson did not let him finish. He took the shoes from Thomas by force, his lip curled.

It put an acidic taste in Thomas’ mouth.

“Lord Downton, next time you have dirty boots, ring the doorbell and Andrew or myself shall assist you,” Carson said. “So that we might avoid complications with the rugs.”

Thomas looked down at his bare feet, and noted that the hem of his trousers had created the tiniest trail of mud from the door to the spot where Thomas stood.

“I’ll fix it-” Thomas said.

“You will not,” Carson shot him down. “You will roll up the hem of your trousers, go upstairs, and wash for dinner as your mother has requested.”

Heat filled Thomas’ cheeks. Utterly embarrassed, he rolled up the hem of his trousers. When he stood back up, he found Carson looking at him with slightest pity.

“I do not wish to chide you, Lord Downton,” Carson said.

But to hear Carson call him ‘Lord Downton’ made Thomas feel like Carson was furious at him still. Like he was a footman, being glared at for not polishing a tureen properly.

“I’d best go bathe,” Thomas mumbled. He turned and left Carson at the bottom of the stairs, wondering up after him with wary eyes. Neither were sure they’d handled the interaction correctly.

 

Back in his room, Thomas immediately stripped out of his work clothes, and bathed. It felt good to wash the mud off and put fresh pomade in his hair, but he was wary of the time and knew that eventually he would have to appear downstairs for pre dinner cocktails. The entire time he washed and dressed, Thomas could not help but think about the oddity of Philip Prevet coming to dinner. He wouldn’t dare be naive enough to assume that Philip was just coming on the happenstance. First they met at Thomas’ party, then he got sent a strange page of a novel, and now?

Now things were starting to get slightly beyond his wheel of control, and he didn’t like it.

Unsure of what to think or how to feel, Thomas left his bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. As he dressed in a dinner tux, Thomas kept eyeing his vanity where the damning page had been tucked out of sight. Every button he tucked, every string he pulled, Thomas could hear the words on the page over and over again in his mind.

_Only the swallow would understand._

What had it meant, and why had Philip sent it? Why, after the argument they’d had? Was he trying to tell Thomas that he truly was sorry, and this was the only messed up way that he could communicate? Or was there something else to the note that Thomas wasn’t seeing?

Something felt… odd.

A sudden knock at Thomas’ door made him jump. He looked about and found Bates carrying a rucksack.

“Carson said your clothes would be in poor shape,” Bates explained, shutting the door behind him. “Told me to get them now to soak overnight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Thomas mumbled, pulling on his tie. He kept fumbling with sweaty fingers, unable to properly do the knot.

Bates paused by the foot of Thomas’ bed, noting his poor complexion.

“What’s wrong with you?” Bates asked.

But Thomas didn’t know what to say. He looked away from Bates, carefully shutting the doors of his wardrobe, “I can’t tell you.”

“Fair enough,” Bates stuffed Thomas’ dirty clothes in the sack, “Should I be worried?”

Frankly, yes.

“... Yes,” Thomas said after a moment. He could not rightfully tell Bates not to be worried when he himself was nervous. He had kept secrets for so long in his life, but at the same time…

This wasn’t a secret he felt he could keep for long.

“Then you better tell me,” Bates said.

Thomas looked about, and found Bates watching him with the same wary gaze that Carson had possessed. What was it about him that inspired such paranoia in people? Was it because he was now technically a Crawley, or was it because the sins of the past had never truly been resolved?

“...The man… Coming to dinner tonight,” Thomas sat upon his vanity stool, drumming his fingers upon his lips. Why were they trembling?

“The Duke of Crowborough? The one that visited the first week I was here?” Bates continued on when Thomas did not finish.

Thomas nodded.  
He looked down at his hands, and found that his sweat was making his palms glitter like they were coated with crushed diamonds.

“Thomas?”

“He’s my ex,” Thomas blurted out.

Bates stared, only to casually drop the rucksack he’d been holding onto the ground. Now they were both staring at one another, unsure of what to say first.

“Don’t tell Carson-”

“Why’s he here-”

They spoke over one another, and as a result both had to gauge their reactions first.

“I can’t tell him if you ask me not to,” Bates said. “But I don’t feel comfortable with it. So why is he here?”

Unsure of what else to say, Thomas opened his vanity drawer and pulled out the note for Bates to read. Bates took it, read it, and then let out a long disgusted sigh.

“Bloody hell…” Bates groaned, handing Thomas back the page.

“I think maybe… maybe he wants to talk,” Thomas said.

“I think he wants to do more than that,” Bates replied.

Thomas shrugged, unsure of what else to say. He rummaged through his vanity drawer for his cufflinks, and pulled out a set of sterling silver to lace upon his wrists.

“He wasn’t here to see Mary, even back then,” Thomas mused. “He came to see me. I was the one that told him there was a chance Mary could inherit. He was scamming her to get money. He was in love with me, or so I thought. I think he was just in love with himself. You know how it is when you’re young and stupid… you think you can take on the world. He was always so hard to read. Posh folk… you know how it is.”

“Thomas…” When Thomas did not respond, Bates grew a tad more impatient, “You realize this is a terrible idea.”

Thomas just shrugged again.

Yet before Bates could go into what would surely be an hour long patronizing speech about how sodomy was the devil’s handiwork and Thomas shouldn’t bring his sins into the house, a sudden knock resounded upon his door. Thomas gave a start, quickly shoving the page from the novel back into his vanity drawer so that no one could see it.

Yet he needn’t have bothered; it was only Mary.

 _“Thomas?”_ she called through the door, _“Are you decent?”_

Decent was a matter of public opinion, and one that Thomas wasn’t sure he’d be able to pass.

“I’ve never been decent,” Thomas called out to his sister, “but you can come in anyways.”

Mary opened the door to reveal a sparkling red dress with black fringe. She looked like a rather scandalous version of Carmen. In an attempt to fade from view, Bates picked back up the rucksack and quickly exited Thomas’ dressing room. Thomas rose from his vanity stool, wondering with slight fear whether Bates was going to tell anyone about Philip’s true nature.

But he had to wear a smile in front of Mary, and did so as he headed with her out the door.

“Were you gossiping about your new horse, the tyrant?” Mary teased.

“His name is Arion, thank you very much,” Thomas was coy as he sauntered down the gallery hall.

“I was thinking ‘hurricane’ might be more on point. Did you hear we’re having a guest tonight?”

“Yes, I know,” Thomas could not help the sigh that fluttered past his lips. Mary linked arms with him, leaning gently into his side as they walked to the main stairs.

“Last time the Duke was here, you were a footman. Are you put off by him?”

“Not exactly,” Thomas said.

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you about something,” Mary said. “Why did the Duke want to speak to you in private? You’re not known to one another, surely?”

“It’s complicated,” Was all Thomas could think to say. He couldn’t afford to tell Mary the whole truth, and so instead of going on to explain he just kept quiet. Mary watched him, noting his stony expression as they descended the stairs.

 

“Are you alright, Thomas?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” Thomas said, though in truth he was far from it. “Just a little tired.”

“I don’t blame you,” Mary said. “You rode out a hurricane today.”

He couldn’t help but smile at the jest.

Downton Abbey in an evening glow was always something marvelous to see. Though the opulence of Thomas’ youth was long gone, there was still something romantic about the burning rose glass bulbs and the soft trickling sound of jazz playing from Matthew’s old gramophone. There had been a time when the halls had been resolutely silent, with Mary in mourning and Matthew’s music too much to bear. Now, Mary had been able to mourn Matthew properly, and the sound of his music sparked beautiful memories instead of heart wrenching pain.

Thomas and Mary entered the pink sitting room to find the couches and chairs clustered with family and friends. The Dowager Countess was wearing dark purple tonight, looking like a peculiar and withered ostrich as she sat in the middle of the sofa. On either side of her were Lord and Lady Merton, both in evening wear and with placid warm smiles. Despite having outrageous sons, Lord Merton had always been a chummy sort. It was, however, the first time that he and Thomas had met under clear circumstances.

Cora and Robert were in matching chairs on the other side of the room, with Tom enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail being served by Andy. And there, making a triangle out of the room and looking oddly misplaced, was Philip.

In the evening light of Downton Abbey, Philip looked more gray and sorrowful than ever. There fine lines around the corners of his eyes and mouth. Age had been good to him, he was as handsome as ever, but there was something bitter about him. Something sorrowful that made everyone around him automatically aware that he was out of sorts. It was like all the energy had been sucked dry from him. Like he had nothing left to give anymore.

“Thomas! Mary! How like twins to arrive at the same time” Isobel Merton praised.

“Darling-” Cora rose from her chair to walk up and lace her arm with Thomas’, “Won’t you come and meet the Duke of Crowborough?”

You can hardly meet someone you already know, Thomas mused bitterly. As they walked forward in unison, Mary fetched a pre-dinner cocktail and began to entertain Isobel and Lord Merton with delightful anecdotes about Arion.

Philip rose from his seat, and offered Thomas his hand. Thomas shook it carefully, and noted that he could feel every bone in Philip’s spindly fingers. It seemed that all the stamina and strength he’d possessed in his youth had faded from him.

But why? Was it just because Philip had gotten old?  
_I wonder if I look just as exhausted to him?_ Thomas thought.

“Duke.”

“Philip, please,” Philip corrected him.

Thomas gave him a bitter smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “...Thomas, please.” No prizes were given out for Thomas’ feelings on that score.

“Cora, come explain to my mother why I’m right,” Robert complained from the couch. Cora looked back over her shoulder, and gave a little groan at the sight of mother and son in an uproar over some kerfuffle.

“Excuse me,” Cora withdrew her hand from Thomas’ arm to sooth her mother in law.

Now Philip and Thomas were left alone, staring awkwardly at one another while Tom drank in the corner and eyeballed them nervously.

“I heard you’ve got a new horse,” Philip said. “Perhaps you can show me after dinner?”

“He’s a little violent,” Thomas said. In truth, he did not want to be alone with Philip again. Everytime they were behind closed doors, Thomas felt like he was handling a ticking time bomb.

“A little?” Tom spoke up from the corner, “I saw him running you about the yard like he was charging the hill of Napoleon.”

“Is that safe?” Philip wondered.

“Safe?” Tom scoffed, setting his cocktail down. “It’s a one way ticket to the hospital.”

“And yet here I stand,” Thomas sneered. Tom just rolled his eyes and turned away. Clearly he wasn’t overly invested in an argument with Thomas until he’d had at least two more cocktails.

 

 

Dinner that night consisted of more fanciful courses given Philip’s presence at the table. They dined on wild mushroom soup with sherry and thyme, curls of lemon dill shrimp, pork tenderloins with walnut and curry stuffing, lemon sorbet for a remove, which was followed by a watercress and apple salad with peanut dressing. It was during this course that Thomas was forced to engage in conversation (for the most part, he’d kept his head down and simply eaten in silence). It was unbelievably queer to eat at the same table as Philip. To know that he was tasting the same food that Philip was tasting instead of serving him.

Scenes from their youths were dancing in Thomas’ brain. He could see himself even now, pompous and proud as he stood by Carson at the buffet table. He’d been so lovingly tender when he’d drizzled Philip’s plate with sauce. He’d let his hand linger just a little too long on Philip’s whenever he’d offered another glass of sherry or port.

Now, Thomas was the one drinking the wine.

“It was so kind of you to drop in,” Cora spoke up, looking to Philip who was casually picking apart his salad for slow consumption. “I confess, it was slightly surprising. Are you sure you don’t wish to stay the night?”

“I fear I cannot, though you are kind to offer me Lady Grantham,” Philip replied. “I confess, I made a small diversion from business in order to look in on Lord Downton. He might not remember but-”

“I remember,” Thomas cut across. Philip bristled, glancing at Thomas and finding his reception icy. “You know I remember.”

“What exactly do we remember?” Robert asked. Between Robert and Cora, it was obvious that Cora was the one attempting to be hospitable.

“I’m a bit of a horse fanatic,” Philip said, and while this wasn’t exactly a lie, it wasn’t the true answer to Robert’s question. “During Lord Downton’s reveal last week, I mentioned that I wanted to examine his horse. He’s a stallion of Kyroma’s line.”

“I’m sorry- who?” Philip hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about horses (not that Thomas was going to reveal this to the table). But he still had no idea who Kyroma was.

“Kyroma is your horse’s grandfather,” Philip explained. Thomas blinked, taken aback. How on earth had Philip known that? “Kyroma was a dangerous, violent horse. He ended up killing many of his mates, including Arion’s grandmother. Arion has inherited his grandfather’s temperament, and I thought I could help you to curb his… enthusiasm.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes at Philip, wondering if it were feasible to set a man on fire by site alone. Enthusiasm? Who was he kidding.

“I would rather we just get another horse,” Robert said.

Quite suddenly, Thomas was snapped from his bizarre conversation with Philip, his heart racing at the thought of giving up his beloved Arion after just one day. No, it would not happen-! It just wasn’t fair.

“No!” Thomas cried out. Robert and Lord Merton looked up from their sherries, shocked at the volume in Thomas’ voice. Instantly, Thomas tried to behave more polite. “I like him. He likes me.”

“Does he?” Cora questioned. “Or does he just tolerate you?”

“And not very well, I should add,” Mary said from across the table.

“He loves me and I love him, and we shan’t be parted,” Thomas refused to even given the notion another second of thought. Ridiculous. Absurd!

“Well I say brava,” Isobel spoke up from her corner of the table. “Thomas is bravely conquering this new foe-”

“I don’t want my son’s horse to be his foe,” Cora said. Isobel had nothing to say in her defense.

“Diamond adores me. She’s never given me any trouble,” Mary said.

“Well Arion adores me,” Thomas said, and while he had no viable proof on the subject he could certainly feel it in his bones. “And I adore him. And I shan’t give him up just to have a more socially acceptable horse. I don’t care who his grandfather was, he’s mine now, and that’s how he shall stay.”

In an attempt to sooth the conversation, Philip interjected: “Take me down to the barn after dinner, and we’ll assess the situation,” he said.

Now everyone was looking at Thomas to see what he would say next. If Thomas rejected Philip, which part of him honestly wanted to do, it would make Mary even more suspicious that something was going on. At the same time, if they went off together, who was to say what would happen?

Unsure of how to diffuse the situation, Thomas just shrugged and went back to picking apart his salad: “As you wish”.

 

~*~

 

It was so peculiar, to walk across the dewy grounds of his home in a dinner jacket with Philip in tow. The barns were lit up in the evening, with gas lamps still burning in the windows of every stall. Besides the far off chitter of birds tucking in for the night, there was absolutely no sound. This far out in the country, no motorcars could be found on the dirt roads save for the random occurrence (mostly in the direction of the abbey). Farmers often traveled by on wagonettes, but they were all home by now enjoying supper with their families.

The methodical crunch of gravel underfoot gave way to the soft swoosh of wet grass. Thomas was careful not to tread in muddy areas, noting that his shoes were expensive and hard to clean. As Thomas and Philip pulled back the barn door, they were shown the cozy sight of a cleanly swept barn with four stalls on each side. Arion’s stall was in the middle, and was one of the larger stalls to account for his enormous size. At once, Thomas greeted his horse, offering him more treats from Mr. Colton’s office and fresh hay from the next stall over. Across the way, Diamond watched with a rather frumpy expression, as if wondering where her extra treats were. Robert’s horse, Horus, was sound asleep in his own stall.

“My god,” Philip wondered aloud at the sight of Arion. “He’s enormous.”

Thomas unlocked Arion’s gate, wanting to use the wood as a physical barrier between himself and Philip. When Thomas closed the gate on Philip, Philip looked slightly hurt. Still, he leaned upon the wood, watching Arion good naturedly.

“Cut the shit, Philip,” Thomas said. He picked up Arion’s brush and began to brush him for what was now the sixth time that day. “Why are you really here?”

Philip looked down, scuffing a bit at the stone underfoot. “I came to check on you… to see if you were alright. I suppose I missed you.”

 _Missed you,_ what utter trollop.

“Whatever happened to finding your American heiress?” Thomas sneered.

But his insult missed the mark; instead of looking annoyed, Philip just looked miserable: “I found her”.

Thomas paused mid-brush stroke, watching as Philip summoned up what little strength he had left to utter the damning words: “I’m married.”

“...Married…” Thomas couldn’t allow his mind to formulate thoughts; they were much too treacherous and emotional. He wondered what it felt like to be married, to be loved completely and entirely by someone. He wondered what his own wedding would be like, should he ever have one. Why did Philip look and act so miserable when he’d gotten what he’d always wanted?

As Arion reached down to nibble more hay, Philip held out his hand to stroke his muzzle. Instead of allowing the touch, Arion reared back, neighing angrily at the unwanted contact. Thomas grabbed him by his reigns, holding him tight as Arion snorted and stamped.

“Hey-” Thomas whispered in Arion’s ear. “Hey now… Sh.”  
Arion snorted, ears back but resolutely standing still.

Philip was taken aback. “He’d definitely got Kyroma’s temper,” Philip wondered.

But Thomas didn’t want to talk about Arion. He wanted to know what Philip wanted, and promptly, so that Philip would either go away or make his intentions clear.

“What capacity are you here in, if you’re married?” Thomas demanded, resuming his brushing, “What do you want from me?”

Philip folded his arms along the top of Arion’s gate, looking miserable, “Comfort I suppose.”

“Comfort,” Thomas sneered the word. What on earth was that even supposed to mean.

“...My marriage is a prison,” Philip bowed his head. Thomas was taken aback to see that there were unshed tears in his eyes.

What on earth?

“It’s horrible,” Philip admitted. “And I just want someone to talk to. I’d contemplated writing to you for years, but I was too afraid.”

Suddenly Thomas was back on shaky footing, fumbling as he brushed Arion’s neck. “What about your children? Can’t you take comfort in them?”

“...He’s in school,” Philip said. “And he adores his mother, not me.”

Thomas bristled, an ugly hot jealousy filling his heart. Of all the things that he’d desired in his life, a child had undoubtedly been one. He’d given anything to be a father, to have a child look to him as a parent and a guiding light. To know that Philip had a son who was biologically his own made Thomas want to vomit.

“You have a son,” Thomas couldn’t keep the venom out of his voice. “How old is he- no-” Thomas waved a hand erratically before Philip could even answer. He didn’t want to know. “Christ, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know any more…. I hate you.”

He bitterly undid a tangle in Arion’s black mane. What would he give for the courage to strike Philip! To let him feel all the repressed anger that Thomas had kept locked inside of himself for all these years.

“...I hate me too,” Philip whispered.  
Thomas glanced at Philip, only to stop dead when he saw a tear slipping down Philip’s sunken cheek. Philip chased it up with a hand, but the damage was done.

“...Why are you crying?” Thomas asked. He couldn’t even summon the apathy to pretend he was more interested in brushing Arion.

“My wife makes my life a living hell,” Philip said. “And I suppose… the only thing I’ve got now is the memories of what I was made to leave behind. Like you.” He looked up at Thomas, swollen eyes completely undignified for a Duke. “I never stopped loving you, you know.”

Thomas didn’t know whether he truly believed Philip or not, but the years had made him kinder to those that suffered, particularly those that were outcast by society.

Setting Arion’s brush aside, Thomas walked up to the gate so that only a flimsy piece of wood separated the pair of them.

“You mean to tell me all these years, you haven’t gone to anyone else?” Thomas asked. That didn’t seem like Philip, it was too unresourceful. Too unopportunistic.

“Louise,” Philip said. Thomas let out a tiny ‘huh’ of acknowledgement. Philip gave him a watery smile, wiping the corners of his eyes again. “We talk about you, you know.”

“And how is dear Louise?” Thomas asked.

“Still chilly,” Philip said. Thomas could not help but laugh.

“Does he even eat properly?” Thomas wondered. Philip shook his head.

“Opium addiction will do that to you,” Philip said. “To be honest, it’s a miracle he’s survived this long. I’ve been going to him for years.”

“Makes me wonder if you’ve really missed me,” Thomas mused. Unable to keep from crude, he added. “After all, all I let you do was fuck me up the arse. Bet your heiress won’t do that.”

“If you can believe it or not, I don’t sleep with Louise. At least… not in that way,” Philip said. “All I wanted was someone to hold me.”

“Now that I don’t believe,” Thomas sneered.

“Ask him yourself,” Philip said. Thomas decided on the spot that if he ever saw Louise again, he would. “My heiress, as you put her, is one of the most vile creatures on this planet. We sleep in separate rooms. I’d rather be dead than let her touch me in any capacity.”

“You paint a charming picture of married life,” Thomas said. Philip didn’t make to challenge him on that account.

Arion had had enough of being ignored. He jutted his enormous head forward, physically pushing himself between Thomas and Philip. When Philip tried to push his head away, Arion almost bit him.

“You’re a little brute, you know that?” Philip said to Arion. Arion just flicked his tail irritably.

Thomas took back up Arion’s brush and resumed caring for his horse. At once, Arion began to relax, his ears slowly returning to their upright position.

“So say I comfort you,” Thomas said. “What does that mean? What do you want from me? To smoke cigars together?”

“Drink brandies?” Philip added with a teasing smile.

“Sneer at servants?” Thomas said

“Take long walks about our estates?” Philip said.

“Play cards?” Thomas smiled.

“Play other games?” Philip’s voice had grown soft, testing the waters.

After a momentary pause, Thomas said. “With our clothes on?”

“While we’re with company,” Philip agreed.  
Thomas stopped brushing Arion.

He realized what an utter waste it was, to be given a chance to go into the past and enjoy himself but to stop all for his selfish pride. Philip was married but hated his wife. Thomas was the son of an Earl but he was hiding in the barn and who would Arion tell? What would it be like to kiss Philip again? To taste the lips of the man he’d first loved, of the man he’d first hated with a dire passion. For so many years, Thomas had wondered ‘what if’.

Why wonder any longer?

Despite Arion being dangerously close (and a little over protective), Thomas leaned across the wooden gate which separated him and Philip. Philip did not hesitate, though he was far more meek than in his youth.

As their lips touched, Thomas felt ten years younger. Like he was still an errant footman teasing a visiting lord. Philip’s lips were thin and dry, no longer plush like in their youth, but he was still as tender and quiet as he’d always been. Still as poised when he kissed as he was when he spoke.

Thomas reached up, and with one hand carefully caressed Philip’s cheek. He found the tiniest vein of a scar running along his cheekbone, and wondered what had happened to Philip. Perhaps a clumsy servant had cut him during a shave-

A sudden smacking sensation put stars behind Thomas’ eyes. He’d been headbutted by Arion, forcing his face apart from Philip’s. The pair of them were left clutching their foreheads, grimacing at the stinging sensation.

“Christ,” Philip rubbed his forehead bitterly, “You know, I think he’s jealous.”

And maybe he was. Feeling cheeky and youthful, Thomas turned to Arion and stood on tip toe so that he might tenderly kiss Arion’s smooth dappled cheek.

The horse snorted, soothed.


	3. Wicked Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas goes shooting, but ends up feeling more like prey when he journeys to London.  
> Meanwhile, Philip Prevet is in desperate need of a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include **allusions to marital rape**. If this triggers you, please be mindful of its presence.

Despite having kissed Philip in confidence, Thomas found himself standing upon a precipice of uncertainty when he looked to the future. Philip was married, he could not deny this; he was also a father, and the implications there were even more severe. It was one thing to dabble with love when you were the only souls involved… but now two more people were wrapped into the difficult tale of Crowbarrow and Crawley. Who was to say if all parties involved would walk away unscathed?

At the same time, as Thomas began to prepare for the upcoming shoot on the Crawley estate, he couldn't help but remember how sorrowful Philip had been. How exhausted and dismal… had marriage really done that to him? Had marriage sucked him so dry that the Philip Thomas had once loved was now nothing more than a husk? If so, then what kind of woman was Philip’s wife? Was she such a witch, or was she merely a dismally dull female that he’d been hitched to?

Did Thomas want to compete with that? To bring life back into Philip’s glazed eyes?  
Was that even his place, or his problem?

All of these thoughts were resolutely locked inside of Thomas’ minds, rolling about like marbles in a titled box. He dined with his family, and said nothing. He walked about the estate and said nothing. He brushed Arion and he said nothing.

He said nothing, and yet his mind was a constant unspooling thread of fears and desires.

 

Thomas Crawley’s first shoot dawned upon a clear and crisp day. Talk was extensively heavy with the thrill of shooters, beaters, and the pheasants that would soon decorate their plates. This would be one of Thomas’ first true tests as a new member of the upper class. There was a sense of heritage and tradition about a pheasant shoot, and put an extra spring in his father’s step. Upstairs, everyone was dressed in tweed, breeks, tattersall and gingham, wellingtons, and even homburg hats. Downstairs, the smells of mulled wine and chocolate biscuits were beginning to waft up through the floorboards. Perhaps it was Robert’s determination for Thomas’ first shoot to go well, but Downton Abbey was sporting more guests than usual this year. Invites included all neighboring nobles, as well as extended family members. Amid the throng, sticking out like a sore thumb, was the self appointed invite of Philip Prevet and (of all people) his wife.

He didn’t want to meet her, but knew it would be nigh on impossible to avoid her. He didn’t want to look into the eyes of the woman who’d gotten everything he’d ever wanted.

Dressed in his hunting tweeds, Thomas felt like a prince for the first time since becoming a noble. It was strangely more enriching to be at home than to be enthroned in a church with his coronation robes and crown. With Downton Abbey looming overhead, glistening in the morning sun, it was hard not to feel powerful.

Mary weeded her way through a crowd of tweed draped nobles, coming to stand at Thomas’ side. Philip was yet to arrive, and Thomas could not help but wonder why. Was something keeping him from coming, or was it just the simple matter of getting his wife to hurry up?

“Thomas, you look lovely,” Mary praised. Andy was wandering around offering a platter full of silver smoking goblets full of hot wine. Moseley, a few feet away, was offering small chocolate truffles.

“Thank you, I feel lovely,” Thomas replied. His words did not entirely match his tone.

Thomas decline both Andy’s wine and Moseley’s chocolate, feeling slightly sick at the thought of meeting Philip’s wife. If this woman was truly so terrible, would it show on her face? Would she be wicked looking and sharp? Or would she be one of those angelic woman that put a pit of fear in your stomach?

“Thomas, what’s going on?” Mary asked him. “I’m not a fool. I can tell you’re keeping something from me.”

“Not now, Mary,” Thomas urged. “I can’t keep my emotions off my face, and I have to look appropriate for the party.”

“Fine but after the party-” Mary demanded. “I want to know what’s going on. I won’t be put off-”

“Yes, yes, alright-” Thomas groaned. In truth, he had absolutely no intention of telling Mary the truth. He’d have to think up a lie today if he was to fly under her vision.

But before the pair of them could speak more on such delightful topics, Mary intervened with a sharp, “Here comes the duke.”

Philip had finally arrived, and frankly he did not look happy about the state of affairs. Charging up the gravel stretch, pushing his way through other nobles, Philip had a pained, exhausted expression upon his face that did not fit such a glorious morning. At his side trotted a slightly shorter woman, with dark curly brown hair in an intricate knot at the back of her head. She was fashionable, and quite pretty if Thomas was honest about himself, but she looked upset… like she’d just been arguing with Philip and had been forced to call it quits in order to look appropriate for the party. She could barely keep up with Philip; it was like he was desperately trying to lose her in the crowd.

As Philip spotted Thomas near the front door of the abbey, he made a beeline for him. At his elbow, determined not to be left, was his wife. Yet before Philip could all but throw himself onto Thomas in distraction, Mary stepped sharply in front of Thomas so that Philip would have to get through her first.

In that moment, Thomas could not help but theorize that Mary would have made an incredibly Army General, had she been able to enlist. Her eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of Philip’s exhaustion and his wife’s wariness. Nothing slipped by Mary, nothing at all.

“Duke,” Mary greeted him.

“Lady Mary,” Philip tipped his hat to her in form of ‘hello’. When it became clear that Mary would not move, Philip had to desist and allow her to meet his wife.

“May I introduce my wife, Lady Clarice,” Philip said.

Clarice gave Mary what was surely her most charming smile, and offered a gloved hand so that they might shake in a light grip. “Please, call me Claire.”

“Claire.” Mary said. “Do you enjoy shooting?”

“Actually, no,” Claire admitted. “I rather hate it. I’ll be sticking to the back of the party. How about you?”

“I delight in it,” Mary said. “Though I suppose that’s my English nature.”

Whether it was or not, Thomas couldn’t say. From behind Mary’s back, Thomas and Philip locked eyes. They held it as long as they could, each of them desperately trying to say something to the other.

 _So this is her?_ Thomas glanced at Clarice, still chatting with Mary about the finer points of pheasant.

 _Be careful,_ Philip seemed to be warning.

Clarice turned her eyes to Thomas, giving him less than a second to quickly break eye contact with Philip and pretend to act natural. Unfortunately, that left him wearing a small sneer.

“And who might this handsome man be?” Lady Clarice asked.

“Lady Clarice,” Thomas reached across Mary to shake her hand. He found her grip oddly light, like her fingers were made of brittle glass. “Thomas Crawley.”

“Lord Downton, he means,” Mary corrected him.

“Lord Downton, I’ve been absolutely gobsmacked by your terrible story,” Lady Clarice consoled. “I’m so sorry for all that you’ve endured--”

“Let’s not rake over that again,” Philip cut across her, the slightest hint of venom in his voice. Lady Clarice looked stung.

Yet before Thomas could try and make amends for someone else’s anger, a sudden touting of a horn at the front of the hunting party caught everyone’s attention. The dogs were baying, yipping at the heels of the beaters to get a shot at being first.

“Let’s get to our cars,” Mary advised. An entire fleet was waiting out front of Downton Abbey, one motorcar after the other meant to take them several miles out where they would begin their shooting walk.

“Perhaps we could ride with you?” Philip said.

“As a matter of fact, our car is full,” Mary pulled Thomas along. “But I’m sure there will be a spot for you just behind us. Papa’s rather determined we Crawley’s ride together.”

As they clambered into their respective motorcar, Mary allowed the door to shut before glaring at Thomas and saying. “I noticed all of that.”

“Noticed what?” Thomas refused to play the game, watching as their mother and father came walking towards the motorcar. Tom was with them, looking mildly amused in his tweeds.

“Why don’t you trust me?” Mary demanded. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

For a moment, Thomas debated telling Mary everything. Yet even as he opened his mouth to admit his sins, he noticed Philip getting into his own motorcar. His eyes were longingly upon Thomas’ vehicle, looking close to tears as if riding with his wife was some form of horrendous punishment.

He decided that until he knew the true nature of Clarice Prevet, he would say nothing to Mary.

“...Not yet,” Thomas said. “Not until I know the full truth.”

“So long as you tell me when you do,” Mary finally replied.

 

 

 

After having spent several weeks in the Grantham woods waiting for the results of his bloodwork, Thomas felt slightly uneasy about returning. They reminded him too much of the past, and those dreadful hours when he hadn’t known who he was or where he’d belonged.

Walking alongside his family, gun in hand, Thomas found himself constantly distracted from actually shooting. A pheasant could have waltzed naked out in front of him singing Carmen, and Thomas would have been unable to shoot it.

Every step Thomas took, he looked over his shoulder into the darkness of Grantham woods. Was there a shadow there flitting after him? Was the ghost of Laura Carney waiting for him to slip up and make a mistake?

“-Philip-!”

Thomas paused, gun pointed in the air. To his left, slightly off the beaten path and looking quite out of sorts, was Clarice Prevet. There was even a small twig in her hair, a sign that a brush must have whacked her in the face at some point. When had she gotten separated from her husband and why? Where was Philip now, out in these woods?

Clarice stumbled onto Thomas’ path, grimacing at a bit of muck that had gotten lodged into the heel of her oxford pump.

And quite suddenly, she couldn’t get out.

“Blast-” She hissed, struggling to get free. Despite feeling wary, Thomas could not help but step forward, offering Clarice a hand. She glanced up, surprised to find that she was not alone.

“Lord Downton!” She wondered at her stroke of good fortune, and took his hand at once so that he might pull her free.

“Duchess,” Thomas allowed her to use his arm as a counterweight while she stumbled free onto the path. Clarice carefully rubbed her heel against the bottom of an ancient oak, rubbing her sole clean. “You’re rather off the beaten trail.”

“I’m so sorry-” She was obviously flustered. “I seem to have gotten lost from my…”

She paused, looking out and around at the dark forest which stretched for miles on their left and right. The far off sound of dogs baying was only broken intermittently by the whooping of pheasants flying overhead. A gunshot made Clarice jump.

“...From my party,” she finally finished.

“He’s not here,” Thomas said.

“Who?” Clarice asked. She was slightly distracted, plucking the twig out of her knotted brown hair.

“Your husband,” Thomas said.

Clarice paused, embarrassed to have been caught out in her desperation and loneliness. A rather petulant look crossed her pretty face as she cast the twig aside into the dirt.

“Is it so obvious?” she wondered. They began to walk again, now side by side as they continued along the forest path towards the glen.

“He makes it rather hard to avoid,” Thomas said. Overhead, a pheasant began to whoop and fly.

“There-!” Clarice pointed.

Thomas aimed, and Clarice jammed her fingers in her ears. He shot, but missed. After a moment, they continued on, both of them unsatisfied.

“I’m afraid our marriage is not exactly a simple one,” Clarice explained. “He rather detests me.”

And unfortunately, Thomas could not help but agree. Still, he wanted to know more. “Why?” he asked. “Are you some kind of witch in disguise?”

“Don’t all witches have American accents?” Clarice teased.

“My grandmother doesn’t,” Thomas said. Clarice could not help but laugh a bit.

Though they were hardly good friends, and it was unfamiliar to touch the wife of another, Clarice reached out and interlaced her arm with Thomas’ own. Thomas paused at the touch, unsure of how to take it.

“Don’t be so stiff,” Clarice said. “Philip told me you were a good friend of his.”

“Is that what he said,” Thomas wondered.

“You sound surprised,” Clarice said. “Is it such a wonder?”

“Well you are an American witch,” Thomas said. “How do I know you’re not wicked?”

“Women like me are always wicked,” Clarice sighed, pulling her arm from Thomas’ own. She seemed oddly disappointed in him.

“What’s that mean?” Thomas called after her. She was now walking on her own, heading off towards the glenn in front of them so that she could regain speed with the rest of the group. It seemed she’d given up waiting for her husband.

“We’re married to dissapointed men!” Clarice called back. She turned, if only for the second to shout after him. With her task done, Clarice left the wood to step into the sunlight. It seemed to revive her, and she visibly relaxed as she approached another woman who was chatting with her shooting partner. She was embraced fondly, clearly a friend to all, and continued on her way.

“Disappointed, is that what I am.”

Thomas jumped, shocked at the sudden voice in his ear. Had his finger been on the trigger of his shotgun, Thomas was almost certain he would have misfired.

“Christ, Philip!” Thomas swore. He turned about to find that Philip had been hiding behind a tree of all places; it made him look like a pathetic figure of hide and seek. “Where have you been all this time? Behind a tree?”

“I’d hide in a bear’s den if it got me away from her,” Philip said. Thomas tutted, rolling his eyes.

“She doesn’t seem so wretched to me,” Thomas said. “She looked a little bit exhausted though. Why not just come out of hiding and argue with her, if that’s what you’re afraid of-”

“Don’t be taken in, Thomas.” Philip stopped dead on the path, refusing to continue the hunt. Thomas had to stop too, so that suddenly the pair of them were still in the gloom.

There was such a haunted expression in Philip’s eyes, that all of Thomas’ annoyance and playful mannerisms evaporated.

“She’s evil, Thomas,” Philip whispered. “Evil in its rawest form.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Thomas asked. “How could she possibly be evil? She can’t even handle a hard handshake.”

“You think evil wears an iron glove? You think evil needs a presence?” Philip questioned. “Evil doesn’t come with a bang and a blast, the war ought to have taught you that…. Evil comes and knocks on the door, and you let it in.”

“Or marry it for money,” Thomas could not help himself. Philip bristled, unnerved by Thomas’ words.

“I made a mistake,” Philip said.

“Clearly.”

~*~

 

It was with no small amount of pleasure that Thomas finally shed his tweeds at the end of the day and bathed off the stink of the shoot. It had been rather unsuccessful for his part, with him only bagging a few pheasants unlike the rest of the men. Philip hadn’t even gotten a single bird, far too busy running away from his wife at every given moment to care about getting in a shot.

It had been unnerving, to sit at a luncheon table and watch Clarice enjoy conversation with the others. Mary had been pleasant, often engaging Clarice in American topics such as the theatre and the oddities of prohibition. On the opposite end of the table, Philip and Thomas had sat across from one another silently chewing on their cold game bird.

Evil knocked on the door for you to let it in, but it certainly didn’t like to announce its presence did it?

Keeping Thomas company as he shed his tweeds and washed his face was Bates. As Thomas’ sole conspirator in his quest to unravel the mystery of Philip Prevet, he was far from amused at the days antics.

“Evil in its rawest form?” Bates repeated with a sneer. “Sure sounds like a toff, doesn’t he?”

“That’s what he said,” Thomas shrugged.

“Far be it from me to assume that wives can’t be evil,” Bates said. “I can’t say that, not after Vera… but something about this doesn’t set right by me. I’d be careful with that.”

“But what if it’s true?” Thomas demanded. He felt utterly exhausted, like he could lay down in his bed and sleep for forty years. Was this the sort of exhaustion that Philip felt every day? Was it all because of Clarice?

“Men like that always hate their wives,” Bates folded Thomas’ tweeds upon his arm before laying them one after another in a canvas sack to take downstairs. They would have to be heavily washed and starched before they could be put up again.

“Oh thanks-” Thomas scoffed; rather typical of Bates wasn’t it? To be so saintly in the face of such crucifixion.

“Not men like you-!” Bates didn’t enjoy being taken in the wrong light; Thomas rolled his eyes, turning his back of Bates to throw a night shirt over his head. “Men who cheat.”

“He hasn't cheated on her, though,” Thomas said. “Not really.”  
But the fact of the matter was, they had kissed in the barn. Thomas could not help but feel the tiniest twinge of remorse in the pit of his stomach. No one knew but he and Philip and yet… would that be enough to begin an act of destruction?

“It’s really not,” Bates warned. It only made Thomas want to squirm more.

“That’ll be all, Bates. Thank you.”

Bates stiffened, as if Thomas had slapped him instead of referring to him in a subservient position. Despite being a member of the family, and technically the heir to Downton, Thomas seldom ever used his title to speak to the staff in a nefarious manner. To do so now seemed to make Bates realize that talking to Thomas about Philip had been a mistake.

“... If I’ve said something to offend you-” Bates began.

“You haven’t, Bates,” Thomas lied. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Please, I’d like to go to bed now.”

Bates left without another word, silently raising his hands in a defensive if ‘i give up’ sort of posture.

As he closed the door sharply behind him, suddenly it was Thomas who felt slapped.

 

~*~

 

It might have been easy for Thomas to dwell on the nightmare that was Philip Prevet and his wife Clarice, had it not been for an even bigger storm looming over his head.

 

The papers bore his worst fears with every headline, citing the upcoming Barrow trial with glee. It was to be the scandal of the century, with upper class misery and lower class barbarics taking center stage. Everyone wanted to interview Thomas. Everyone wanted to know what he’d endured, and what he planned to do once Alice and Nathaniel Barrow went to trial. For whatever reason, it was Alice’s trial which seemed to be capturing everyone’s imagination. Some more cruel newspapers were even referring to her as the new Amelia Dyer. Some wondered if Alice was insane, and others cited her desperation to replace her own infant with Thomas as something ‘any mother might have done’. Laura Carney’s madness seemed to have rubbed off on her sister, they insisted.

That was when the real darkness began to unfold.

Originally, it had been believed that the Carney’s had come from Ireland. But as police had pushed into the past of the deranged clan, it had become clear that the Carney’s were actually from Scotland, and in particular Bennane Head. In the village of Bennane, the name Carney bore tales of cannibalism and witchcraft, and brought back memories of the notorious Sawney Bean. The Carney’s had been witches for years, the villagers swore, and had only fled Bennane when the rest of the village finally got tired of their antics. As the Carney’s had headed down south, they’d changed their names and tried to take up new identities. It was easier to pretend to be Irish than bring any traces back to Scotland. From there, it was just a few more generations of madness until Alice and Laura had come along.

What this meant for Thomas, in the long and tall, was that he had to go to London and give his own testimony by hand in order for Alice’s trial to commence. He had been bidden to come to Murray’s office, to write down everything he could remember in exact and vivid detail. Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, Cora, Robert, and Mary had all been asked to give their accounts as well, but Thomas’ had been saved for last. He would be the ‘pinnacle of evidence’ as Murray had referred to him. The ultimate blow to Alice Carney’s fate.

The infant she’d meant to hold captive.

On a cold and foggy Tuesday, one week after the peculiar shooting party, Thomas Crawley traveled to London for the first time on his own since becoming a viscount. Dressed in his best, it was Thomas’ plan to arrive at Kings Cross, head to Murray’s office, travel with Murray to the Old Bailey courthouse where Thomas’ testimony would be handed over to the judge presiding over the Barrow case. After that, Thomas would retire to the club where he would stay in his father’s rooms before returning home to Downton the next day. It would be exhaustive, but not undoable.

The journey to Kings Cross was pleasant and without issue. Thomas rang for the Crawley motorcab to meet him outside, and journeyed to Murray’s office where he was greeted pleasantly by all he crossed. He wondered at how easily he blended in, at how no one registered anything about him save for his clothes. What did they think of him, he wondered. Did they imagine him to be spoiled and filthy rich? A young man who’d spent his life in luxury? Did it show anywhere upon his face that he’d been a servant? That he’d once attempted suicide in a bathtub?

The scars upon his wrist itched against the silver of his cufflinks.

Murray’s office was on the top floor, hidden behind several panels of glass and wood; Thomas was let in by Murray’s secretary, a pretty woman with brown bobbed hair, and then took his seat on Murray’s leatherback sofa to enjoy a cup of tea while he waited. Murray was in a meeting, or so he was told, and would be out quite promptly.

It gave Thomas a moment or two to enjoy a cup of tea at any rate.

When Murray did appear, he looked slightly bedraggled and had to take a moment to sit down and wipe his hands clean of ink.

“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting,” Murray said. “I’ve been run off my feet for the past week getting ready for this trial. It’s going to be the spectacle of the century.”

He offered Thomas an ink pen and a large sheaf of fine paper.

“If you write down everything, just as you recall it from the beginning to the end, I’ll have my secretary make two copies and we’ll continue on our way to Old Bailey,” Murray explained.

“Everything?” Thomas asked, wondering at how many pages he would have to write.

“It’s vital the judge knows as much as you can relay,” Murray explained. “We have to prove that Alice Barrow is not insane if we want her to face the full punishment of the law.”

So it was that Thomas spent the next three hours bent over a sheaf of paper on Murray’s couch, going through another two cups of tea as he wrote down all that he could recall from his infancy, childhood, eventual banishment from the Barrow household, time serving at Downton, to finally the ultimate reveal of his true identity. By the time he was finished, his hand ached horribly and he wanted nothing more than to nap for ten years. He’d amassed a total of thirty pages, and was shocked at all the detail he’d been able to write down. Murray was delighted, giving the entire bundle to his secretary before taking Thomas to lunch.

They dined at the Olive Jar, not a block away from Murray’s office, enjoying a fine selection of smoked bottarga, and afterwards returned to Murray’s office to find that the secretary had finished her task. With typed documents in hand, the two men then hailed a cab to journey to Old Bailey, which sat in central London comfortably located near Chancery Lane. Today was clearly a prominent day at Old Bailey, with several court cases being presided over. The judge who would preside over the Barrow case was likewise in court, passing a verdict on a case which involved a rather nasty and affluent divorce. As such, he was not present to take Thomas’ documents. Instead, they were given to his secretary, a weedy and bright man with large spectacles that barely fit his face.

After they’d finished with their errand, Thomas and Murray stood outside of Old Bailey and waited for their respective motorcabs. Murray would return to his office, and Thomas the club.

“Well, M’lord-” Murray offered his hand for Thomas to shake.

“You know, you can just call me Thomas-” Thomas said, shaking Murray’s hand in a warm grip. Murray would hear none of it.

“I shouldn’t dare go against your father,” Murray teased. “I should tell you that both your parents are very proud of what you’ve done here today. They recognize how difficult it must be.”

“I’m just glad to get it over with,” Thomas admitted. Overhead, a slow clap of thunder rumbled to the north. It would no doubt rain tonight.

“Will you be alright for the rain?” Thomas asked, guestering to the clouds--

 

He stopped dead, shocked at what he saw just over his left shoulder.

 

Though it had no doubt been close to twenty five years since Thomas had last seen her, it would be difficult for him not to recognize Margaret Barrow. For many years, he had thought her to be his own sister, but now the mere sight of her made Thomas feel deeply ill. She wore a black faded dress as if in mourning, and her blue eyes were swollen from multiple spells of crying. At her side were a few women, each of them ancient and weeping like a mourning train for a funeral. There was a dismal air about the group, an awful sullen atmosphere that made the rain feel closer and the thunder sound louder.

Margaret stared at him with such loathing and contempt that Thomas automatically felt his lip curl.

She had to have known. There was no way she couldn’t have known. How old was she now, thirty surely? Alice must have told her the truth by this point…. A thousand memories were flying through Thomas’ skull like the tape reel of a nickelodeon, reminding him of all the awful ways that Margaret had teased him as a child. How their ‘parents’ had never interjected, leaving Thomas to fend for himself against an incredibly spoilt little girl. Now, the girl was a woman, and suddenly Thomas wished he had Mary by his side.

Mary, his true sister and twin.

“Bastard,” Margaret seethed. She spoke through clenched, yellowing teeth.

Thomas scoffed, glancing back at Murray to find him stricken.

“Who is this woman?” Murray demanded.

“The Barrow’s daughter, Margaret,” Thomas explained. “Surely you’ve read about her existence at some point.”

“I never thought I’d meet her like this,” Murray grumbled. “When will our cabs arrive? I have no time for this talk.”

Murray took several steps away from Margaret, clearly uneager to get into an argument with a Barrow.

But Margaret was incensed, furious to be cast off like a fallen leaf.

“Have you no shame?!” She shrieked at Thomas. “Have you an ounce of regret?!”

“I’ll leave the shame and regret to you lot, thanks,” was Thomas’ cold reply. He descended the steps of Old Bailey, deciding to wait by the side of the road until his motorcar arrived.

“You are a filthy-- liar--!” Thomas was suddenly knocked off balance, and stumbled upon the steps as Margaret slapped him round the back of the head with her handbag. Thomas whipped around, seething up at the smaller woman. But instead of being reproachful, Margaret just kept going. At her back, the pack of older woman were protecting her like a group of vengeful harpies.

“You’ve managed to convince a gullible, pathetic, snobbish little family that you’re one of them! And why not when you both reek of injustice-”

“Keep my families name out of your wretched mouth!” Thomas snarled. “You’re not worthy to speak of them-!”

“Your family is in JAIL!” Margaret screamed the word. They’d now gotten the attention of nearly everyone on the street. Two policemen were making their way down from the top steps of Old Bailey, determined to intervene.

“You put your mother in JAIL!” Margaret screamed.

“I PUT MY KIDNAPPER IN JAIL!” Thomas roared back.

“Kidnapper?!” Margaret let out an ugly cackle that made his skin crawl. She threw back her head, as if asking God silently for strength. “That’s a right laugh-!”

“I have a signed confession, bloodwork, and the testimony of your family doctor!” Thomas was almost purple in the face from rage.

“A forgery, pseudo-science, and a deal! I bet you gave him money to spin a story-!” Margaret turned to the other women for support. One rather sulky old crow nodded her head sagely.

“Yeah, that’s it! A whole bloody team of pseudo scientists backed by the government and funded through taxes! Boy you are a smart one” Unable to resist himself, Thomas took another step up and pressed his chest against Margaret’s own so that she had no choice but to back down lest she trip. Her look of disgust missed its mark; Thomas was furious! “! I bet you knew- “ He seethed in her face, “I bet you knew the whole time. I bet you knew what I was, and you just relished treating me like shit-”

“My lord!” Murray was at his elbow, forcing him backward. “My lord, step away. She’s not worth it. Alice Barrow is in jail, and that is what matters- It’s over-”

“My life was ripped from me!” Thomas screamed, a finger in Margaret’s shrewd face. “It will never be over! Not until I see every last one of you hang! ALL OF YOU--!” Thomas gestured at the group of women.

“Sir, you’re causing a scene-” One policemen interjected himself bodily between Margaret and Thomas. “I advise you to take your business elsewhere-”

“You’re a liar!” Margaret cried out. There were tears sparkling in her blue eyes, full of hate and rage for all the bitterness between them.

“Witch!” Thomas shouted the word. “Carney-! Vermin!”

“Thomas that’s enough-” Murray said in his ear, pulling him even further towards the curb. It was only now that Thomas noticed his motorcab had arrived. The driver had gotten out, and was holding the door open with a worried expression upon his grizzled face.

“Burn in hell-!” Margaret shrieked at him, even as a policeman pushed her away and Thomas was shoved into his motorcar.

As the motorcar quickly pulled away from the curb, Thomas could hear Margaret shrieking after him:

_“I know the truth, Thomas Barrow-!!”_

 

~*~

 

The sound of scotch slowly slipping into his crystal glass was a soothing and methodical sound, but it did nothing to replace the shrieking that Thomas heard inside his head.

He’d returned to the club, in a rage, and had had to lie down for several hours if only to regain some control over himself. There would be talk in the papers, he wasn’t a fool. Someone was bound to have seen or heard his little display on the steps of Old Bailey. But it was the way that Margaret had looked and him and spoken to him which truly enraged him.

To hear himself be called “Thomas Barrow” again, made him want to be ill.

Now, the hour was late, and Thomas sat in the lounge of the Lion’s Den with his second glass of scotch before him. Hiding in a leather booth near the back of the bar, he’d successfully passed the time by listening to a piano playing soft jazz in the corner while smoking his way through three cigarettes.

The barman was a kind, portly fellow, dressed in a fine vest of striped silk and a large graying handlebar mustache. He’d successfully kept Thomas from sipping on a low drink for the past two hours, and for that Thomas was terribly fond of him.

The barman was making his rounds, pausing as he returned to Thomas’ booth with a scotch decanter in hand.

“A top up, sir?” the barman asked.

“Why not,” Thomas grumbled. He didn’t even look the man in the eye, merely sliding his glass over so that the barman could silently refill it.

“And for you sir-?” The barman said to another.

“I’ll have a scotch, please.”

Thomas whipped his head around, shocked to find Philip Prevet sliding into his booth. Unable to stop himself, with a slightly drunken tongue, Thomas smacked his hands upon the table and snapped, “Christ sakes, did you follow me here!?”

The barman silently fetched Philip his own glass while Philip pulled out one of Thomas’ cigarettes and lit it without asking.

“No,” Philip drawled around a mouthful of cigarette smoke. “But I did happen to hear from a friend of mine that you spent this afternoon in a screaming match with Margaret Barrow.”

The barman returned with a glass of scotch in hand, and offered it to Philip along with his own personal marble ashtray.

“The papers will talk, obviously,” Philip warned him.

 “Fuck the papers,” Thomas seethed, he almost felt like he might break his glass, “That _fucking bitch.”_

“Think I--” But Thomas was too angry to talk in a straight sentence. Instead, he just kept blabbering, cutting in and out like a broken gramophone. “A pseudoscience. A forgery-! A bloody deal for money! I ought to wring her grimey little neck, the trash monkey-”

“Last I recall, your forgery skills were not that good,” Philip mused. Of course, the last time that Philip had seen Thomas forge a note, he’d been twenty years old and looking to get back at another footman.

“I’m out of practice,” Thomas grumbled.

Philip just smiled, tapping his cigarette clean of ash, “Tell me what’s the last thing you forged?”

“Note to a cook dictating the meals of her master,” Thomas shrugged. That felt like an age ago, back at Brancaster Castle before Lady Rose had been wed. Christ, what a nightmare shooting trip that had been. That stupid butler-!

“How’d that play out?” Philip teased.

“Got cussed out in front of a room full of toffs,” Thomas rolled his eyes. “Along with the bastard’s butler who was also a right ass.”

“Like seeks like,” Philip praised. In an odd moment, they toasted their crystal classes with a sharp chink.

“Tell me more,” Philip urged, taking a large swallow of his glass before silently gesturing for the barman to return so that he could get a refill.

“Ended up really getting dirty on him…” Thomas didn’t know if it was the scotch or the three cigarettes, but he was starting to feel a buzz. He grinned, “Butler got drunk, called me into his office, showed the forgery and demands to see my handwriting-” Thomas barely stifled a giggle, “So I wrote with my opposite hand!”

At this, both THomas and Phillip laughed together. Oh how lovely it was, to be young and foolish. To do something stupid, and barely get away with it.

“Looked like an epileptic chicken wrote it.” Thomas cackled, only to pause as he recalled how he’d gone a step too far, “I went over the line though.”

“You always did, you little bastard,” Philip teased.

“Fuck you-” Thomas kicked Philip’s leg under the table.

“Fuck you!” Philip kicked him right back.

 

 

It felt so oddly good to have dinner with Philip. To sit in the smoky lounge of the Lion’s Den and know that they were perfectly safe from the outside world. There weren’t many lords visiting London, or rather no one was visiting the bar, and so for that reason Philip and Thomas were given a private audience to the piano player while they dined on steaks and asparagus in champagne vinaigrette. They drank even more scotch, played a game of cards, and generally had a good time as the hour ticked closer and closer to midnight.

“So what will you do now?” Philip asked. He’d shed his tie, and was currently pondering over his hand of cards. It was a tough game of Spite and Malice, with Thomas winning by a clear three cards.

“What I always do, I suppose,” Thomas grumbled. “Ride it out like I always do. Will I ever know peace, I wonder?”

“I doubt it,” Philip pursed his lips, “I haven’t.”

And suddenly, all the jovial warmth of their meal and card game seemed to be dissipating. Philip’s depression was returning, showing in his sunken brown eyes as he laid down his hands of cards and gave up the game without a fight.

For a moment, there was silence as Philip drank and Thomas carefully repacked their cards. As Thomas thumbed through a group of aces, Philip slowly began to speak again. Every word seemed to cause him pain.

“I married her because my father demanded it. Practically strong armed me up the aisle. I spent my honeymoon weeping. Eventually she got angry at me and left me. I returned home alone to find her back at the house, acting like nothing had ever happened.”

“... My god,” Thomas wondered at the absurdity of it all. Why had Clarice not left Philip by now, if she’d experienced such a cold shoulder? What was in it for her, besides money and position?

 _Listen to yourself,_ Thomas thought irritably. _Plenty of people would endure a great deal more for the same!_

“She knows…” Philip croaked. His eyes were beginning to fill up with tears again. He resolutely stared at the table to keep Thomas from seeing him cry. “She knows what I am. She thinks it’s abnormal. She thinks... “

Philip swallowed, sickened. “She thinks if she makes me have sex with her enough, I’ll change.”

Thomas was taken aback. _What?_

“No,” He whispered.

“It’s hell, Thomas,” Philip croaked. “It’s utter hell, and I hate her. If I was a man of stronger will, I’d kill her.”

“Don’t say that-!” Thomas urged. Maybe it was just the scotch he’d drunk, but Thomas could no help reaching beneath the table to take Philip’s knee in hand. He was disturbed to find Philip trembling.

“It’s true…” Phillip whispered. “She’s the devil, and she’s got me in chains, Thomas. I’m a fucking prisoner in my own house. Why do you think I’m always trying to get away from her?” He looked up, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Because I’m terrified of her,” Philip said. “An’ she knows it.”

For a moment, the room grew dark, and Thomas almost wondered if the abismal nature of Philip’s story had caused the room to be plunged into a gloom. Then, he realized that it was well past midnight and the barman was closing up.

“My lords,” The barman sighed, pulling off his apron. “The bar is shutting down for the night. I bed you both a restful sleep.”

Philip sighed, hanging his head.

Unable to resist the stab of empathy and pity that swept through him, Thomas spoke up. “Come to my room!”

Phillip glanced up, unsure.  
“No need to stop the party now, eh?” Thomas said with a smile.

 

 

They left the lounge, heading upstairs along rows of plush red carpet to reach the fourth landing where the Crawley private suite was kept. Floors were divided into three doors, which offered small apartments to the north, west, and east. The Crawley apartment was on the west, and had an excellent view over the river Thames. Philip and Thomas entered, only for Philip to pause by the door with a smile.

“Mine is bigger,” Phillip teased.

“Well my daddy is an earl, Phillip,” Thomas sneered.

Unable to resist, the pair of them began snickering and fell onto the couch. For a moment, it was just a matter of getting comfortable, with legs going everywhere and shoes being kicked off. When they were finally in a more relaxed position, Thomas spoke up again.

“Why not divorce her?” He asked.

“Money and scandal,” Philip mumbled, his eyes closed as he rested against a large ornate pillow bearing the image of a dancing lion. “Scandal is poison to our lot.”

“And she’d turn you in?”

“Absolutely,” Philip said.

That particular grain of knowledge was like a slap in the face. In that moment, Thomas utterly despised Clarice. “Bitch,” He whispered.

“I just…” Philip sighed, voice heavy with sorrow, “Try and avoid her as much as possible. And she has the nerve to act wounded about it in public It makes me look like an ass, and she delights in it…”

But Philip looked close to crying again.

Thomas just couldn’t stand it! It was wretched, to see a man he’d once known to be so strong reduced to so little by one pathetic woman. The fact of the matter was, that his little wife was sexually molesting him for her own gain. If Philip didn’t want to sleep with her, then he shouldn’t be made to sleep with her. And the way that Clarice carried on, acting like Philip was the one being cruel-! It was enough to make Thomas see red.

But Philip still needed cheering up. Struck by the idea of London, Thomas sat up and said, “Why don’t we go to the Cavour? Louise is probably a bit chilly tonight.”

Outside a clap of thunder sounded.

“No…” Philip mumbled, shaking his head. “I’m too drunk. I’d make a fool of himself.”

“You’re allowed to be human.”

“No m’not,” Philip sighed, relaxing back into the couch, “And neither are you. I’d give anything to sleep with a man, and feel… warm again. Feel like I have some life in me. But everytime I’m touched all I feel is her. I need someone to make love to me who can understand that. Who won’t push me past where I’m willing to go.”

Thomas blinked.

An idea was coming to him, both wicked and wonderful at the same time. Technically…  
Well…  
But should he, really?

“... Would you like to sleep with me?” Thomas whispered.  
Philip’s eyes popped open. He stared at Thomas, taken aback.

“What?” He asked, confused.

“... I’m so tired of seeing you miserable,” Thomas said. “Particularly when I knew you to be so strong. If I can help you in any way at all, i want you. An’ if what you need is to lay with someone that’ll take it easy on you… then I’m offering.”

Philip blushed.

He sat up, the ornate pillow to his back. Thomas could see the longing in Philip’s eyes, how he seemed to be daring with himself to take Thomas up on his offer.

“You tempt me with everything I want,” Philip whispered. “And you don’t even know it.”

“...I know it,” Thomas said. “And that’s why I’m tempting. I want you to feel better again.”

Philip flushed. “And I suppose it would be an act of charity to you.”

“Believe it or not, buggery is one of my preferred hobbies,” Thomas said with a smile. Even Philip could not help but crack a grin at that.

“...If you’re offering,” Philip said.

“I am.”

“Then…” Philip paused, glancing down at his knees again. “Then I suppose I’d like to accept.”

The pair of them stared at one another for a moment. Outside, the pattering of rain turned from a lull to a gale while thunder clapped overhead. The hearth was crackling low, and the room was pleasantly warm. Four glasses of scotch were coursing through Thomas’ system, along with all his repressed rage over Margaret Barrow.

But when he leaned in, Philip met him halfway… and when they kissed, it was Philip who drug them to the floor.


	4. The Trial of Alice Barrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By day, Alice Barrow faces her trial.  
> By night, Thomas Crawley faces his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has very specific warnings which will give away some of the plot. If you are triggered by anything, please look to the notes at the end of the chapter to see what's coming.

The trial of Alice Barrow was set for a cold October day, when the wind blew strong and the clouds threatened rain. Leaves were blown with such vicious strength that they seemed to scream as they tumbled upon the pavement. The world was pushing onward, towards the violent chill of English winter. Soon, snow would cover every road in and out of London rendering transportation difficult. For now, the tracks through Kings Cross were mercifully bare, allowing the Crawley clan (sans the Dowager) to head to London so that they might open Crawley House and prepare for the Barrow trial.

 

Despite feeling fully confident in the prosecution’s case, Thomas still felt a gnawing pit of fear in his stomach. It would be the first time that his false mother and his true mother had been in the same room since 1890. With all the bad blood between them, and the nightmare of Thomas’ kidnapping, Thomas was unsure if the trial would go smoothly or wind up in flames. Cora wore a stony look upon her face most of the time, only broken by the tiniest flicker of a smile when someone tried to make her laugh.

 

They never succeeded.

 

Thomas had not seen Philip in over a week, though he thought about him often. Their night together had been nothing like the fits of passion in their youths. Back then, sex had been a game, something they could play dirty in and still have fun. It didn’t matter who’d been on top or on bottom; they’d had raucous fun either way. But when they’d lain together at present, Philip had refused to be on bottom. Something about being underneath another body seemed to scare him, seemed to make him feel trapped. All Thomas knew to do was allow Philip to take full control; anything to help him feel better.

 

But Philip hadn’t even been able to finish. Instead, he’d collapsed on top of Thomas crying; Thomas had held him through the night, comforting him till he’d finally fallen asleep. When Philip had woken up a few hours later, he’d wanted to give it a try again. Thomas had been unsure, but Philip had persisted, and when it was all said and done Philip had allowed Thomas to lay his head upon his chest.

 

“I didn’t cry because I was upset,” Philip had said, with a slightly defensive tone that was completely unnecessary. “I cried because you felt so good.”

 

Thomas had never received such a compliment regarding the features of his backside, and frankly didn’t quite know how to take it.

 

He also had a feeling that Philip had been lying.

 

The day of Alice Barrow’s trial dawned on a cold gray sky that refused to let the sun break through. It was set for ten in the morning, so the Crawley clan dined on a short breakfast before heading to Old Bailey with Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, and Mrs. Patmore. All three of them would serve as witnesses for the prosecution, along with Dr. Clarkson (who had come up separately), Chief Inspector Wilson (who’d arrested the Barrows), the phlebotomist who’d made the discovery of Thomas’ link to the Crawleys, and even Dr. John Hudson of Stockport who had been the one to disclose Thomas’ true genealogy. In short, they had a staggering set of witnesses that were bound to destroy whatever nonsense the Barrow’s tried to put up in defense.

 

Filing into Old Bailey, one after the other, Thomas and his family were separated from their staff who went around back to be put in a room with other witnesses. This helps testimony to remain un-muddied, and likewise freed up space in the courtroom which was standing space only.

 

Everyone from the riff raff to other nobles had turned out, each of them desperate to get a look at the notorious Alice Barrow and learn the full extent of her crimes. Thomas saw reporters from several prominent London newspapers lining the sides of the courtroom, along with a few reporters from Yorkshire. As Thomas and his family took their seats in the very front row next to the prosecution, Cora kept an iron grip on his hand. Down in the ring, Murray was sitting with a group of five other lawyers, each of whom was either serving as a private lawyer to the Crawley clan or serving the interests of one of the witnesses. One lawyer in particular was serving as a go-between with the London School of Phlebotomy, while another was specifically enlisted to serve as a defense for Dr. Clarkson and Dr. Hudson. A third represented Chief Inspector Wilson, and looked the most irritable of all the lawyers. The jury was waiting across from the public, a group of twenty odd men with rigid expressions.

 

And there, flanked by three policemen in the defendant’s box, was Alice Barrow.

 

It was like something out of a drug induced haze, to look upon the face of the woman who for so many years Thomas had imagined was his mother. He could remember with ease, being a small child and clinging to her skirts hoping for affection. The sting of her slap had been familiar to him, had become methodical and soothing because it was the only time she touched him. She’d seemed unbelievably strong in his youth, like she was made of iron. She certainly didn’t look strong now, quivering in a dirty gray prison frock. Her pepper hair was unkempt, swept back from her waning face to show just how sunken in her cheekbones were. She refused to look at anyone, else locked blankly upon a place somewhere below the judge’s pulpit. One or two flashbulbs went off as reporters tried to get a good shot of her face, but it was in vain. Alice Barrow refused to be a good subject, instead standing like a limp doll between her captors.

 

Even now, Thomas could see her in her darkened kitchen, tousle haired in a bathrobe while her husband lifted a shotgun right at Thomas’ face. The bullet scars upon his arm seemed to ache in her presence.

 

Everyone was waiting for the judge, eyes locked upon an enormous clock which hung above the judge’s pulpit counting down the minutes to 10.

 

At 9:55, the door to the judge’s private quarters opened.

 

Judge Gordon Hewart was Lord Chief Justice, and as such was the highest court authority in the land. He looked the part too, with a large square face and a draping powdered wig that went down past his shoulders. His breast was covered in a frilly white breast plate, with enormous black robes swallowing his entire person so that he seemed to float more than walk. As he walked in, everyone was ordered to rise up from their seats in a show of respect. Cora was still clenching Thomas’ hand, though her grip was starting to become sweaty from stress. On Thomas’ other side, Mary and Edith were likewise starting to look nervous. Judge Hewart was known as a liberal, and often did not look to the authority of the upper class for judgement.

 

When Judge Hewart sat, so too did the audience. In the stagnant silence that followed, Thomas could hear his mother breathing slightly faster than usual. On her other side, Robert sat holding her other hand. He looked gray faced and exhausted, as if the sheer fact of being in the same room with Alice Barrow had sucked him dry.

 

“Alice Barrow,” Judge Hewart began, examining his documents at length, “you have been brought here today before a jury of your peers on the conviction of kidnapping, child endangerment, obstructing justice, harboring a fugitive, and attempted murder. How do you plead to these charges?

 

Despite being asked a direct sentence by Judge Hewart, Alice remained silent. She refused to look at him, her eyes locked somewhere just beneath his pulpit. Why wasn’t she speaking in her defense?

 

“What is she doing?” Mary whispered.

“Maybe she’s mad,” Edith whispered back.

 

“Am I to assume you’re not issuing a plea?” Judge Hewart asked. Once again, Alice remained silent.

 

“Due to the defendant not issuing a plea, I am forced to enter the defendant’s plea as ‘not guilty’.” Judge Hewart said. A glance from Murray on the floor assured the Crawley family that all was well. This was normal, this was fine. Judge Hewart took a moment to scribble something on his documents with a fine golden fountain pen before looking up to say, “The prosecution may now present its case.“

 

This was Murray’s cue to step forward, and he did so with clear authority until all the room’s attention was held on his person.

 

“Gentlemen of the jury, allow me to take you back to the night of May 18th in the year 1891,” Murray began.

 

~*~

 

_Bam bam bam!_

_Bam bam bam!_

_The sound of Clara Albright pounding upon Charles Carson’s door was enough of a racket to wake the dead, so it certainly succeeded in waking the thirty year old butler up._

_His bedroom door was yanked open to reveal a young and heavily irritated man, with black hair hanging unkempt in his face and a faded nightdress going to his knees._

_Upon opening the door, Charles Carson was shocked to find the sight of Clara Albright, the ancient nursemaid of the Crawley family, holding the infant Mary to her sagging breast. Mary was still fast asleep, curled up in pale pink blankets adored with sewn flowers, but Clara was hysterical with deep tear tracks upon her deflated cheeks._

_“Mrs. Albright-!” Charles immediately grabbed his housecoat from a hook behind his door to robe himself lest he be seen as inappropriate. “What is the meaning of this dist-”_

_“Master James is gone!” Clara blurted out, her voice shrill._

_Charles paused tying his sash, unable for a moment to fully comprehend what Clara had just said._

_“... What?” Charles asked._

_“I went to check on Master James and Miss Mary ten minutes ago, and Master James was gone!” Clara babbled, her chest heaving with erratic breathes. “I checked everywhere but there’s absolutely no trace of him! Someone’s stolen him from his crib!” And her panic truly showed as she shook with Mary in her arms. “Stolen him!”_

_But Charles was not a man of hysteria, and he did not waste time when confronted with a problem. He stepped around Clara, and though it was not proper of him to run in front of a woman, he did so now. Dashing to the glass door which divided the woman’s side from the men’s, Charles took his keys from his housecoat pocket (where a set always remained), and unlocked the door to step through so that he might wake the new housekeeper Mrs. Hughes._

_She had been the head housemaid up until only a few months ago, and had been promoted to her position by the last housekeeper Mrs. Buce. Twenty seven years old and very pretty, Elsie Hughes was far too distracting for Charles Carson. He never admitted it, and he certainly never acted on it, but there were times when he fancied her more than the rest of the staff. She soothed him, made him feel in control, and in such panicked moments as this was his most staunch ally._

_Charles knocked rapidly upon her door, taking no care to remain quiet. At his side, Clara stood shaking with Mary in her arms. Mary was beginning to wake from the noise, whimpering slightly so that her pale pink mouth formed the perfect ‘o’ shape._

_Elsie’s door opened to reveal the new housekeeper in a soft purple housecoat with her braided hair down upon her shoulder. Beautiful even in the dead of night, she regarded Charles and Clara with wary eyes as if she thought she was still dreaming._

_“What on earth is going on?” Elsie asked._

_Charles spoke rapidly, unwilling to waste even a second when he could be searching instead. “Master James has been taken from his crib. Rouse the staff and join me on the gallery floor. We must search every inch of the house and grounds as quickly as possible!”_

_Elsie went white._

_“Oh my g-” She could not even finish the world, hurriedly grabbing her chatelaine from where it lay atop her chest of drawers to at once begin rousing staff. One person who did not need to be roused, however, was Beryl Patmore who at the age of thirty could be woken by a mouse sneezing four floors above her._

_“What in the bleedin’ hell is going on?” She demanded grouchily from her door. Charles did not waste time speaking to her, determined to get to the gallery floor as quickly as possible so that he might wake the family and begin their search._

_“I was only gone for a moment-!” Clara began to sob now, even as Mary started whimpering at her breast. “Only g-gone l-long enough to f-fetch their b-bottles!”_

_The sound of Mary and Clara crying echoed down the stairwell as Carson descended to the gallery floor._

_He ran to the master bedroom where the only other occupants of the house were sleeping. Lord and Lady Grantham were newly parents, with their babes only a year old, and were still in their spring season._

_Carson did not even bother knocking upon the door to the master bedroom. He opened it to find Lord and Lady Grantham fast asleep in bed. Lady Grantham’s hair covered her pillow like a thick black carpet, her bossom heavy with milk._

_Carson roused Lord Grantham first with a gentle but firm hand upon the young man’s shoulder. Lord Grantham gave a start, shocked to be woken so swiftly from the dead of sleep._

_Lord Grantham had to blink several times before he could truly react to the sight before him: “C-Carson!? What’s going on-”_

_“-mm?” Lady Grantham shifted slightly upon her pillow, woken by her husband’s cry._

_“My Lord, I crave your pardon, but Mrs. Albright has just fetched me; Master James has been taken!”_

_Lord Grantham sat bolt upright in bed, throwing his covers off of his legs. “What-?!”_

_Cora wa staggering up as well, her hair hanging in a thick wave over her slim shoulders. Her expression was that of utter terror._

_“Come with me!” Carson begged them both._

_They followed without question._

_An enormous throng was gathering outside the nursery door, with Clara still holding onto a crying Mary while the staff clustered around Mrs. Hughes’ elbows. Carson immediately sought out Harry Palmer and Jonathan Barnes, his first and second footman. Both men were cheery with the other, and worked together well._

_The housemaid Emmaline was the first to speak up, “Mr. Carson! What should we do?!”_

_“Harry, Jonathan, Felix-” Carson instructed his footmen, “Each of you take the yard. Search it high and low, leave nothing unturned. And wake the stable hands! Tell them to saddle a horse!”_

_“Right!” Harry said at once, grabbing Jonathan by the elbow to tug him along. Felix ran after the other two, the pair of them making wicked time as they fled down the main stairwell into the entrance hall below._

_“Mrs. Patmore, Holly, Emma, Ava you’re to search the house.” Carson demanded. At once, Beryl lead the charge, opening the first door that she found (which lead to a guest room) so that she might search inside. Carson then turned to Clara, who was still shaking even as she tried to sooth Mary, “Mrs. Albright stay with Lord and Lady Grantham!”_

_Clara didn’t seem to know what else to do. Tears were still spilling down her cheeks._

_“Mrs. Hughes, rouse the scullery maids and the hall boys and have them search the servant’s quarters. I’ll ride into town and fetch the constable.” Carson decided._

_“At once!” Elsie agreed, turning back to the green baize door so that she might run through it._

_“Hurry Carson!” Cora begged. She was shaking just as badly as Clara, the pair of them clinging to one another as Robert thundered in indignation._

_“But who would do such a wicked thing?!” He demanded to the two women as Carson ran down the main staircase. “Who would dare to take my son!?”_

_Out the front door Carson went, heading straight for the stables though he was barefoot and clothed only in his nightdress and housecoat. Even in the month of May, the English nights were cold. But Carson could not feel the sting of the chilly wind upon his face. He could not feel anything save for fear for the infant James, who only hours ago he had seen in his crib. Swaddled and bandaged from his run in with the savage Carney, James had been sleeping peacefully next to Mary._

_Who would dare to take him? Who besides Carney who was now rightfully in prison?_

_As Carson reached the stables, he found the doors thrown back and the lamps all lit. Across the grounds, Harry, Jonathan, and Felix were all calling out for Master James. Their three torch lamps cast wide beams of warm light upon the ground, like three erratic fireflies dancing in the dark._

_Colton senior, the groomsman, was already saddling Lord Grantham’s horse (a fierce stallion named Ramses)._

_“I was going to ride into town myself-!” Colton said with surprise. To be fair, he was better dressed for it though he only wore trousers and suspenders._

_“No, I shall do it,” Carson declared. He mounted Ramses, feeling slightly like a tit with his naked loins touching the handsome leather saddle. Mercifully, his nightdress gave him decency._

_“Search the yard!” Carson commanded him. “Search the woods! Search everywhere!”_

_With that, he took off into the night, riding clear out of the stables and through the coral gates so that he might head down the front drive into town. As he went, he could hear Lady Grantham behind him. It seemed she’d come outside, and was now screaming into the dark:_

_“James answer me!” She shrieked, her voice fading upon the wind. “JAMES! ANSWER ME!!”_

_Yet even as Carson rode away and the footmen searched the grounds, a dark shadow watched from the outskirts of Grantham Woods._

_A figure clothed in rags, young and yet hollow with rage, holding a bandaged infant to her chest._

_Laura Carney cared nothing for the dramatics of Downton Abbey, or its ridiculous family._

_Her sister’s quest was complete, and with that she felt content as she slipped off into the woods._

~*~

 

After hearing the story of Thomas’ abduction, a short recess was taken so that witnesses for the prosecution might be lined up to give their testimony.

 

The first to come forward was Carson, who painted a dark picture of the maid who used to work in his house: “She immediately wanted to return home. She kept insisting she couldn’t stay in the house now that Lord Downton was gone.”

 

Then, after his testimony and answers came Mrs. Hughes who relayed much the same story: “ I never heard from her again. The others, I always did… but not her. I wrote to her several times over the years. Never a peep. When I realized that she was claiming to be Lord Downton’s mother, I couldn’t believe it.” At this, she’d glanced up at Thomas in wonder. “They looked and acted nothing alike.”

 

The next to come forward was Mrs. Patmore, who was perhaps the most saucy of all the witnesses. She glared at Alice the whole time, and did not try to hide the venom in her voice: “She kept rambling on about how Lord Downton was so ‘precious’. She never said a word about Lady Mary. Only about how Lord Downton was ‘her angel’. I thought her barmy.”

 

After these three testimonies, the prosecution moved onto more professional witnesses. Chief Inspector Wilson was next, and he was questioned directly by his own lawyer: “As soon as the case was brought to my attention, I immediately sought out the Barrows. I found them trying to flee the country and stopped them. They were trying to book passage to the Americas. Claimed they needed a holiday. Didn’t realize going on holiday meant throwing in everything and the kitchen sink.”

 

This perhaps was the most damning evidence by far, and Thomas noted that several members of the Jury were beginning to look very convinced.

 

Then, after the inspector came the phlebotomist: “The bloodwork analysis was completed three separate times to ensure accuracy. Each time, the results were the same. Lord Downton was Lady Mary’s twin. There could be no denying the family link.”

 

By this point, nearly all the journey was viewing Alice Barrow with disgust.

 

At this point, it was time for Dr. Clarkson to give his own testimony. He brought several documents for Judge Hewart to sort through as he spoke at length to the Jury: “ I was the initial doctor to tend to Lord Downton in his infancy, and the one to firstly examine the wound that Laura Carney inflicted upon him. The wound on Lord Downton’s arm is exactly the same in shape, size, and color. I’ve compared photographic evidence just to be sure. You each have a copy before you.”

 

The jury took a moment to review the photo, a few of them muttering to themselves in wonder.

Judge Hewart merely nodded, filing the photograph atop the enormous pile of documents the prosecution had already given him.

 

The last witness to come forward was the doctor that Thomas had known in his youth; it was the very same doctor who had tended to his gunshot wounds when he’d nearly been killed by Nathaniel Barrow. Dr. John Hudson looked oddly sad as he spoke to the jury. He seemed almost ashamed, though Thomas could not fathom why.

 

“Lord Downton was brought to me as an infant with the wound upon his arm… Alice couldn’t tell me why he was wounded, or where she’d found him. She kept saying he came from gypsies in Grantham Woods.” Dr. Hudson paused, speaking more to the prosecution now. “ I looked after Lord Downton as he grew older… and I can succinctly say that the man standing before you today is the same man that I treated in youth. Lord Downton was the abducted Barrow boy. When Lord Downton realized the Barrow’s crime, Nathaniel Barrow tried to kill him to hide the evidence. I had to remove the bullet shells from his arm. Lord Downton was utterly clueless to his true genealogy. Utterly. When I told him, he had a breakdown. And who could blame him?”

 

Dr. Hudson paused, glancing at Thomas in the audience box.

He gave him the tiniest smile, though there was an apology hidden upon his lips.

 

“Had I only realized sooner, I would have contacted the authorities myself,” Dr. Hudson said. “No child deserves to have their life robbed of them.”

 

Dr. Hudson’s testimony concluded the line of witnesses for the prosecution, which meant it was now turn for the defense to have their say. They faced a stiff wall of opposition, with many members of the jury looking thoroughly disgusted. As the witnesses for the prosecution rejoined the audience box (a difficult feat with such little space left), Judge Hewart looked upon Alice Barrow with a blank expression.

 

Thomas supposed it was normal of him, to have to keep a neutral stance until he’d heard all the testimony and witnesses from both sides. But what witnesses would Alice Barrow bring forward? Who did she even have on her side?

 

“Having heard from the prosecution and witnesses, I now call upon the defense to state their case and refute the claims against them. If the defense would care to begin?” Judge Hewart craned his beefy neck, looking for whoever Alice Barrow had employed as her lawyer.

 

But it seemed she had none.

 

“Your honor!”

 

A shrill cry from the arena split the waves of policemen and lawyers. Quite suddenly a haggard young woman was pushing her way forward, waving a number of soiled papers in hand.

 

It was Margaret Barrow.

 

“Your honor, my name is Margaret Eileen Barrow. I am not a lawyer, but I am the youngest child of Alice and Nathaniel Barrow. I come here today to speak in defense of my mother’s innocence!” She declared. At this, a murmur rippled through the jury and the audience box.

 

“I didn’t know they’d taught pigs to talk,” Mary sneered to Edith.

 

Perhaps Margaret had heard Mary, either way she looked furiously up at the Crawley family as she pointed a sharp finger at them. “Everything that you have heard here today is a lie-! This wicked family are nothing but--”

 

“I have something to say!”

 

The sound of Alice Barrow speaking for the first time in court was so shocking, so raw, that it forced even Margaret to be silent. She looked about, wide eyed as she stared up at her mother. Alice Barrow was finally staring at the crowd around her, but her eyes were locked upon Judge Hewart. It was as if the pair of them were having an intimate conversation instead of speaking in a room full of people.

 

Judge Hewart gestured with a meaty hand. “I will allow it.”

 

For a moment, there was silence. Alice Barrow seemed to be steeling her nerves, and Thomas felt Cora clench his hand even tighter.

 

Then, Alice opened her mouth and let the truth fell out. “I did it.”

 

At once, the audience burst into a row of babbling and gasping, with reporters quickly trying to snag photos and the jury looking from one to the other as if wondering ‘did that just happen’?

 

From his pulpit, Judge Hewart remained unmoved. His only show of emotion was when he took his gavel to call for order and silence.

 

In the renewed hush, Alice began again. Down among the police and the lawyers, Margaret was panicking.

 

“Mother, stop-!” Margaret begged her.

 

“I require order!” Judge Hewart warned.

 

Alice just gave the tiniest smile, utterly worn out by the trial. “I realize why my daughter came to my defense… she’s come from a line of strong, brave, and talented women… she wants to save me, because she loves me. Because she’s my baby.” Alice looked down upon Margaret, speaking more to her than anyone else.

 

“And she deserves to know the truth,” Alice said. “I was young and foolish, and I took him because I thought it would bring back my dead son. I miscarried him in the attics… I had to wash the blood out of my pants and go downstairs and chop firewood for that bitch’s nursery.” Alice paused, looking across the courtroom at Cora.

 

Thomas had never seen Cora look so furious at another individual, nor had he ever heard his mother be called a ‘bitch’. The effect was such that every member of the Crawley family was now seething at Alice Barrow.

 

Alice’s eyes flickered between Thomas and Mary: “Two perfect sweet little babies. Well… or so I thought. Look at them now all pompous and proud. Perfect little toffs.”

 

Mary just sneered, rolling her eyes.

 

“You are confessing?” Judge Hewart cut across “Knowing full well what the sentence entails?”

 

“… I am,” Alice Barrow solemnly replied. “I am proudly confessing that I stole his life. That I stole his innocence. That I stole his relationships… and I was glad to finally get some of mine back after years of scraping the shit off their boots-”

 

“Witch-!” Cora burst out, screaming at Alice from the stands. “Satan’s daughter-!”

 

At this point, the courtroom had turned into a zoo, with everyone shouting and clamoring at one another while reporters went berserk. Someone tried to get a picture of Cora, only to be knocked out of the way by Tom who pushed the camera back so that it couldn’t get a shot of her. Thomas could take no more of it, standing up in front of his mother to block her from the journalists. He could not allow his mother to be taken hostage by their belligerent questions!

 

“Order!” Judge Hewart bellowed, smacking the gavel several times. “I demand order!!”

 

It took three minutes of hysteria for order to finally be reinstated.

 

“Court will reconvene in twenty minutes,” Judge Hewart slammed his gavel again, motioning to the jury for them to follow him out.

 

“Vile- heartless- snake!” Cora choked out, tears falling from her eyes. Robert was quick to offer her a handkerchief while Carson stood behind Cora to place his hands tenderly upon her shaking shoulders. Meanwhile, Tom was still in an argument with the camera man he’d knocked over.

 

“M’ just tryin’ to do m’job!” the cameraman defended hottly.

 

“Yeah?! Do this!” Tom sneered, before giving the camera man a rude hand gesture. This was answered by yet another camera man snapping a picture of Tom flicking the man off.

 

“Tom!” Mary barked. “Get away from the journalists, they’re like gnats!”

 

“Ah-!” Tom waved them off, rejoining the family unit with his back to the journalists and a heavy set scowl upon his youthful face. “Morons.”

 

“It’s alright, mum,” Thomas murmured to Cora. She did not respond to him, her face hidden behind her husband’s silk handkerchief.

 

“All will be well, My lady,” Carson murmured. “All will be well.”

 

Cora looked up through bloodshot eyes to choke out, “How could she?” At this, she looked to Robert, who had no answers to give her. “How could she do this to us, Robert?”

 

“She’s pure evil, and no more can be said,” Robert finally decided. Behind him, Mrs. Hughes was quick to echo his sentiments.

 

“Amen,” she muttered nastily under her breath.

 

True to Judge Hewart’s command, court reconvened after twenty minutes had passed. The jury filed in, one after another, looking slightly disturbed as if they’d just witnessed a murder instead of a sentencing. As they retook their seats, Judge Hewart entered the room once more to fill the pulpit. He took up his gavel, holding it weightily in his hands as he looked to the jury for direction.

 

In Hewart’s palms was Alice Barrow’s life. Like the fates of Greek myth, he could do with it as he pleased. Thomas wondered what it was like to be a judge, to have that kind of power of another person’s life. Did Judge Hewart often feel exhausted by his work, or did he leave it at the office and go home a normal man?

 

“Have you reached your verdict?” Judge Hewart asked the jury.

 

One man stood up from the rest. In his hands, he held a thick piece of manilla paper. “We have your honor.”

 

A second of silence passed, and Judge Hewart tipped his head in silent acceptance of the jury’s decision.

Next to Thomas, Cora was quivering. Down in the arena, Margaret was looking from the jury to her mother, unable to save her from the fate she’d placed on herself.

 

She hadn’t even allowed Margaret to defend her… but why?

 

“We find the defendant guilty of all counts,” The man said. At once, a babble broke out over the courtroom, forcing the man from the jury to shout in order to be heard: “Of kidnapping, child endangerment, obstructing justice, harboring a fugitive, and attempted murder.”

 

It was at this that Judge Hewart found his voice, and he looked upon Alice Barrow with cold eyes. She’d gone gray again, no longer in the world of the living as she instead drifted off.

 

“Alice Barrow, you are to be taken from this place of law and hung by the neck until dead. And god have mercy on your wretched soul-” Judge Hewart raised his hand to slam the gavel upon its pulpit, but paused.

 

At first, Thomas did not realize why until he looked to Alice.

She was sticking her tongue out at the judge, which was rather childish until Thomas noticed that there was a pill sticking to its tip.

 

“Guards-!” Judge Hewart pointed at Alice, but it was too late.

Alice shot her tongue back into her mouth, and without another word swallowed the pill.

 

“What the hell was that?!” Robert demanded.

 

Dr. Clarkson and Dr. Hudson were both making their way to the audience box, each of them wanting to see what was going on as Alice suddenly began to convulse.

 

She dropped like a stone between the two policemen who tried to hold her. From the floor, Margaret was screaming for her mother.

 

“Help!” Margaret begged the audience. “Someone help! Ring for a doctor-! She’s swallowed poison!”

 

But no one was helping. No one was even making to run. The Crawley family sat watching, disturbed as Alice Barrow died right in front of them like an animal upon the courtroom floor.

 

“My god-” Mrs. Patmore choked out. “She truly is mad!”

 

Suddenly, Mary reached out to hold onto Tom’s arm of all people, leaning into him as she watched Alice die with unblinking eyes.

 

Thomas rose from his seat, wanting to see.

He wanted to watch the woman choke to death on her own bile. He wanted to be sure she was dead, just as he’d shot her sister months ago. The Carney family was doomed to ash and dust, and Thomas wanted it that way. But at the same time, Thomas felt this odd spool of regret beginning to unfurl inside of him. Was it really right that she die this way, with no one willing to help her?

 

No, he refused to feel pity for Alice Barrow. Pity was for those who had suffered, not for those who created the suffering. He didn’t care if Alice was hung or if she writhed in agony from poison. He just wanted her gone. Next to him, still sitting with a pale and waning expression, Cora glared murderously at the dying woman.

 

“Good,” Thomas heard her whisper.

 

~*~

 

The Crawley family returned to Crawley House in a strange malaise, no one talking or offering consolation over the subject of Alice’s death. After Alice had collapsed upon the dias, policemen had forced back the audience to try and clear the courtroom. Margaret had been inconsollable, screaming and crying for a doctor that would never come. Despite Dr. Clarkson and Dr. Hudson being in the room, neither had made to help Alice when she’d swallowed poison.

 

The Crawley family had taken six steps out of the courtroom only to be informed by a passing policemen that Alice Barrow was dead. They could still hear Margaret crying even as they’d been made to leave Old Bailey.

 

“Mother!” she’d screamed. “Mother, no!”

 

Upon returning home to Crawley House, Robert had asked for Dr. Clarkson to join them so that he might see to Cora. Dr. Clarkson had arrived shortly, and had asked for Cora to lay down as the afternoon progressed.

 

Apparently she’d just lain in bed, neither moving nor sleeping. Dr. Clarkson had given her a mild sedative, and then had caught the train to return home to Downton.

 

So it was that the Crawley family was left in daze, with Thomas, Mary, and Tom sitting in the parlor taking tea while Robert sat with Cora upstairs. Edith was walking Dr. Clarkson out. Carson had returned to his livery, and was standing in silence by the window while rain began to pour outside.

 

A distant peal of thunder finally broke the silence. The hour was growing close to dusk, with the sky being painted in swathes of deep crimson and purple.

 

The door opened to reveal Edith, who looked just as exhausted as Thomas felt.

 

“How is she?” Thomas asked. Edith took up a cup of tea from Carson before sitting down next to Thomas on the couch. Across from them, Mary and Tom were hip to hip, both of them indulging in raspberry scones.

 

“Quiet.” Edith said. “Dr. Clarkson said she should rest. Papa is a little too restless.”

 

“Mm,” Thomas carefully spooned honey into his tea, allowing it to swirl into a miniature hurricane.

 

Edith was never the one to allow for a bitter silence. “It’s over now,” She murmured. “That’s what matters.”

 

“Is it?” He wondered.

 

“It may take time to move on from, but she’s dead now,” Tom mused. “What more can she do to you?”

 

“...Well her sister was a witch,” Thomas said. “What if she was the same-”

 

“Oh don’t start with that,” Mary grumbled. Though she spoke in warning, there was no bite to her voice. It seemed that Thomas was a soft spot for her, warming her heart even when she was irritated.

 

“I saw things, Mary,” Thomas warned. “Remember that corpse we found at the Crawley house?”

 

“Don’t remind me,” Mary shuddered. Tom patted her tenderly upon the hand. She even stuck out her tongue a bit, as if the memory of the corpse had put a foul taste in her mouth. “What a wretched place.”

 

“Well what if I’m cursed?” Thomas mused. “What if she… I don’t know… put a curse on me-”

 

“Thomas, don’t be silly,” Edith caressed his arm empathetically. “Curses don’t exist. If anyone in this family is cursed, it’s me. And see? I’m getting married now, and Marigold is well. So curses can’t exist.”

 

“Right, but this is beyond bad luck, Edith,” Thomas said. “I saw things where Laura Carney was hiding out. Graves dug in the dirt and carvings on cave walls.”

 

“She was mad,” Mary said.

 

“But the ropes burned! We saw them burn!” Thomas said. “The ropes holding her to the chair!”

 

“I can’t explain that but I don’t believe that she’s a witch,” Mary shrugged. “I simply don’t.” She took a sip of tea as if to end the subject.

 

Thomas felt like he wasn’t being heard, and it resulted in him getting a slight headache.

 

The sound of the doorbell ringing broke the tension of their conversation. Carson set off at once, abandoning the tea set to answer the call.

 

“Christ I hope it’s not another reporter,” Thomas muttered.

 

“If it is, I’ve got another hand gesture for them,” Tom said with a wicked smile.

 

“Don’t you start,” Mary said, though she wore a grin all her own. “We’re going to get flack for that, you realize.”

 

Just to tease, Tom slowly raised his hand again, his middle finger twitching aggressively. Mary forced his hand back into his lap, the pair of them snickering.

 

Carson was back, opening the door with a rather disturbed expression upon his face.

 

“Carson, who is it?” Edith asked.

 

“A visitor for Lord Downton, M’lady,” Carson grumbled.

 

“Not a reporter, surely?” Edith said. In response, Carson stepped aside to reveal Philip Prevet.

 

Mary was taken aback, her expression close to scandalized. Philip was soaked to the skin, clearly having come without an umbrella. What was more, he looked oddly punch drunk like he’d been indulging before taking a walk. There was a sloppy smile upon his face that did not entirely match his normal demeanor.

 

“Duke?” Mary demanded.

 

“What on earth?” Edith whispered under her breath. Even Tom was slightly uneasy about the Duke’s arrival. Thomas gave Philip a petulant look, unsure of how to fully express both his irritation and affection without being obvious to his siblings.

 

“Philip,” Thomas greeted him through clenched teeth, “I see you’ve forgotten your brolly.”

 

“Wanted a shower,” was Philip’s coy reply.

 

“Why are you here?” Thomas asked.

 

“Because I had to see you!” Philip just grinned, taking one step forward and then another until they were dangerously close together. Thomas was shocked when Philip reached out to grasp him firmly by the upper arms. It was much too familiar, much too intimate for the pair of them to engage in in front of the others. Mary’s eyebrows were in danger of disappearing into her hairline. Carson looked ready to be ill.

 

“Look at you!” Phillip laughed at Thomas’ nervous expression. “Sulking like a maid with a soiled apron over the death of your captor! You’re living my dream!”

 

Before anyone could comment on that bizarre sentence, Philip pressed on. “Come on, I’m taking you out.”

 

“Out?” Edith repeated, incredulous.

 

“But it’s raining!” Mary said.

 

“It’s England!” Philip laughed, “It’s always raining! And besides, look at him all sour faced… he needs cheering up!” Philip even dared to pinch at Thomas’ cheek, though Thomas pulled back.

 

“Philip-” Thomas almost laughed for the silliness of it all. Was he drunk?

 

Tom rose up from the sofa, looking very uncomfortable. “Look, I don’t think this is the right time for a jaunt in the park. Our family has had a difficult day and-”

 

“Really?” Philip turned about, using a tone that was most suggestive. “Because I outrank you, and I think it is right.”

 

Tom flushed bright red, furious to be talked down to.

 

“Philip!” Thomas said reproachfully. Philip gave him a baleful stare.

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t be rude to him,” Thomas warned. “He was my sister’s husband, and she loved him very much.”

 

“Ah, Lady Sybil…” Philip sighed, suddenly looking quite depressed. “She always had such a sense of charity about her.” He glanced at Thomas. “Do you want me to go, is that it?”

 

“I- no-!” Thomas was flustered. Why was Philip acting so strangely. “But I’m not dressed to go out-”

 

“Oh that’s easy!” Philip beamed. “We’ll go to the Cavour!”

 

At this, he leaned in to speak directly into Thomas’ ear. “No clothes needed there, eh?”

 

Behind Thomas’ back, Carson went scarlet at the suggestion.

 

~*~

 

Robert was most displeased to learn that his only son had trotted off with the Duke of Crowborrow despite it raining heavily outside and Cora sleeping off a sedative upstairs. Really, this wasn’t exactly the most productive time to go for a walk! But there had been a tense atmosphere when Robert had descended the stairs, broken only by Edith making a call to Bertie Pelham and Mary deciding to take a tray instead of having dinner with the others. Tom was in a most foul mood, having apparently taken offense to something or other that the Duke had said. Robert tried not to think about it much while he ate rabbit in a vin sauce. Robert, Tom, and Edith now ate in the dining hall, clustered at the far end of the table so as not to force Carson to trot a mile just to refill the port.

 

“And you just let him go?” Robert wondered at Tom. Tom rolled his eyes, stabbing at his rabbit moodily.

 

“Like I wanted to spend another minute with that prick,” Tom grumbled. “I don’t now what Thomas sees in him.”

 

“He was acting most peculiar, papa,” Edith added. “I think he might have been slightly intoxicated, though I shudder to imagine why.”

 

“Well I don’t approve of it either way,” Robert said. “Tonight is not a night for socialization. Your brother needs to learn that sometimes he must decline his friend’s offers.”

 

“Oh, they probably just went for a pint or something,” Tom sighed. “Not much else they could do in this rain.”

 

And yet, before Robert could voice his agreement and change the topic of conversation to the ghastly weather, Carson did something rather peculiar.

 

He coughed.

 

Robert paused mid-bite, unsure if he’d heard correctly, but as he turned about to glance at his trusted butler, he found Carson looking at him most pointedly.

 

He seemed… nervous.

 

“Carson?” Robert asked, setting his fork down. “What is it?”

 

“Forgive me, my lord,” Carson spoke softly, stepping closer to the table so that he might speak intimately with Robert. “I cannot in good conscience stand here in silence. Not when I know where he is.”

 

“And where is he?” Robert asked.

 

“The Cavour, my lord,” Carson said. But this held no meaning to Robert. He’d never heard of the Cavour before.

 

“And what is this place?” Robert asked, setting his napkin upon the table to address his butler with his utmost attention.

 

“... It is an establishment that I heard of during my youth when I lived in London,” Carson was dancing around the true words, nervous to speak on dangerous topics in front of women. “That caters to… certain groups of men.”

 

Across the table, Tom let out a groan. “Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

 

But this could not be.

If the Duke of Crowborrow knew about such an establishment, and had taken Thomas to it, he could only have done it for one reason. But the Duke was married, and had even attempted to court Mary once! Surely he wasn’t…

 

And yet…

 

“Are you certain of this?” Robert asked.

 

Carson tutted, “To quote his grace: “We’ll go to the Cavour. No clothes needed there.”

Robert felt the blood drain from his face.

 

He rose from the table, heart hammering as he briefly contemplated calling the police. And yet, if he were to raise charges against the Duke, he would inevitably endanger his own son as well. No, the only way that Robert would be able to solve this problem would be to go to the Cavour himself. But if he were recognized, the scandal would be of such a magnitude that the family might not survive it.

 

“... Tom, come with me,” Robert said. Tom at once put down his fork and rose up from the table. “We’re going for a little walk.”

 

“Papa, you can’t be serious!” Edith begged. “If you’re seen, it would be disastrous!”

 

“I know how to keep a low profile,” Robert assured his daughter. “And I’m a man on a mission tonight.”

 

~*~

 

There was no easy way to get to The Cavour, and frankly Tom Branson wasn’t keen to go there in the first place.

 

You couldn’t just walk out the front door, hail a taxi, and ask the driver to take you to where the homosexuals partied. Instead, you had to take a taxi to Leicester square, and from there start walking until the people around you just got weirder and weirder. You’d see women in men’s clothing, men in women’s clothing, and a few people who just defied gender altogether. Twice, Tom passed a woman in a mustache and he was almost certain it was natural. Given how hard it was for him to grow a full mustache, he felt a little irritated that a woman could do it so easily.

 

“Wait-” Robert halted mid-stride, a hand upon Tom’s shoulder.

He was looking down an alleyway, where a cheery yellow overhang offered entrance into what looked like a cafe. Given the gale that they were struggling through, it looked terribly inviting.

 

A few men were hanging out front, smoking and watching as if for trouble makers. They looked like the queerest posse Tom had ever seen.

 

Upon the overhang, blank paint bore the words: “The Cavour”.

 

They approached with caution, stowing their umbrellas as soon as it was safe to do so. The front of the Cavour was wide open, showing a grand view of a scene straight out of Dante’s Inferno. Tom had never seen such displays, with men of all creeds, shapes, and colors fawning over one another. He was utterly shocked at the sight of two men near the door, kissing intimately as if they were the most tender of lovers.

 

Tom froze, eyes wide.

 

“Steady…” Robert muttered under his breath. Tom didn’t know if he was speaking to himself or not.

 

Robert entered first, with Tom coming in close behind. They stowed their umbrellas in an overflowing bin by the front, and were greeted promptly by a waiter with a cheery smile. Tom had no idea if it was a man or not, though by their voice he was almost certain it was a woman.

 

“Can I get you a table, gentlemen?” The waiter asked.

 

“Actually we’re meeting someone,” Was Robert’s smooth reply. “I believe his name is Thomas Crawley?”

 

“Oh!” The waiter was quite surprised. “Thomas! Yes, he’s here. He’s downstairs! You know the knock, I assume?”

 

“Quite,” Robert replied, though frankly neither of them knew the knock nor what ‘the knock’ even alluded to.

 

“I’ll leave you to it!” The waiter said. Without another word she (he?) departed, heading over to another table to refill the wine goblets of three men in frocks who were playing cards.

 

“Frank you always cheat!” Teased one of the men. Frank, for his part, just shrugged and drank.

 

Robert and Tom made their way around the room, eventually reaching a back hallway where two doors presented themselves. One, oddly enough, did not have an outer doorknob.

 

“What knock?” Tom hissed in Robert’s ear. Christ, they looked suspicious!

 

“Shh-” Robert refused to show his nerves, “Try the door with the handle, I’ll wait here.”

 

So Tom did as Robert said, nervous of what he might find on the other side. He was certain that if someone groped him, he’d shriek. But upon opening the door, Tom found nothing save for a bathroom. Unfortunately, another young man in a pink glittering frock was inside, putting on fresh lip rouge in the mirror. Unsure of what else to do, Tom pretended to wash his hands, as if he’d dirtied them in the pub. As he finished, he walked out with the young man in rouge.

 

The young man spotted Robert and made a beeline for him. Robert, for his part, tried not to look shocked and instead gave a pleasant smile.

 

“Hello mister…” The young man even dared to reach up, toying delicately with the front lining of Robert’s dinner jacket. “Looking for fun?”

 

“As a matter of fact, my fun is waiting for me downstairs,” was Robert’s smooth reply. “I’m afraid I’m a loyal man.”

 

“Well-” The young man dropped his hand, looking rather put out. “If you’re ever feeling unloyal, come and find me.” At this, the young man returned to the main cafe, where he hopped up on a barstool and started chatting with his companions.

 

“Bathroom,” Tom explained to Robert. “So it’s got to be the other one.”

 

Now the pair of them were standing like a pair of idiots outside a door with no handle. There was only one way to get through, and that was to knock. But the pair of them were utterly clueless until someone else walked up and knocked for them.

 

“This is creeping me out,” Tom whispered. “All these men in dresses, what are they playing at?”

 

“They’re different, Tom,” Robert warned. “Not inhuman. Kindness would not go amiss here. We are in their world.”

 

But it wasn’t kindness Tom was lacking; it was understanding. He’d never seen a man in a dress, and he wasn’t too sure how he felt about it. He had to wonder if Thomas wanted to wear dresses; if he had a frock or two hiding in his wardrobe back home.

 

But this was ridiculous. The day Thomas wore a dress was the day Mary penciled in a mustache on her upper lip. Neither of them were discontent with their sex.

 

The door without a handle opened, revealing two men. Both looked flushed, and as they made to exit Robert and Tom surged forward. They were at once plunged into a velvet gloom, with steep stairs showing them the way down into a hallway. Yet even as they made to enter, they were stopped by an enormous black man hiding just behind the door. He had a little alcove to stand in, allowing traffic to pass without him having to interfere, but as Robert and Tom entered the man rose up to question them.

 

He was, in a word, slightly terrifying, with large tattoos upon his arms from his time in the navy and a shaved head.

 

“Ey-” The man warned. “What are you here for?”

 

“Thomas,” Was Robert’s smooth reply. “We were told to meet him downstairs.”

 

“Ay,” The man dropped his hand, gesturing towards the bottom of the stairs. “They took room number four.”

 

“Thank you,” Robert said, descending. Tom followed after him.

 

“Christ did you see the size of him?” Tom hissed in Robert’s ear. “What are they feeding him?”

 

But as they reached the bottom of the stairs, all thoughts of what the man up top might be having for breakfast were quite literally punched from Tom’s mind when a naked man walked around the corner.

 

Well, almost naked.

 

He was angelic in the strangest of senses, with feminine features and a body shaved of any hair. Wearing an open kimono of jade and gray, the man looked emaciated and frankly a little unwell. Still, he offered Robert the most sultry smile that Tom had ever seen.

 

“Well hello daddy,” The man murmured. He reached up, grabbing Robert by the tie to pull him close. Tom saw Robert’s eyes go wide as dinner plates.

 

“You remind me of when I used to get a spanking,” the young man declared.

 

“F-forgive me,” It was the first time that Tom had ever heard Robert stutter. “But I’m actually here to see someone and I’m rather loyal to them.”

 

It was like a lightswitch had been flicked.

 

At once, the man dropped back, letting go of Robert to carefully adjust his kimono so that his nakedness was covered. In a millisecond he’d turned from a whore to a completely normal man (or something close to it).

 

“I apologize,” the man said, and he sounded quite sincere. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Who are you looking for? Maurice has just arrived-” He gestured to the right, where Tom noted an underground bar was offering sanctuary to a young man about his own age that had half his clothes off and his lap full of a teenager.

 

“His name is Thomas, I believe he’s in room four?” Robert said.

 

The man paused, slightly taken aback. “Thomas?” He looked to the left, down a long darkened hallway. “I could have sworn that party was reserved for two, but then again he did have me with that tutor…”

“Tutor-” Robert sucked in a breath, eyes flashing. Suddenly Tom was reminded of the five tutors who had come to mentor Thomas only a few months ago. It seemed that one of them had been dabbling in extra curricular activities.

 

“Oh boy-” Tom mumbled. But Robert had heard and seen enough. He pushed past the young man in the kimono, and took a left to head down the darkened hallway. There were no numbers on the doors, but the pair of them knew how to count sure enough. Tom followed after Robert, his heart beginning to pound wildly in his breast. Now that they were down here in this hallway, with half naked men all around them, Tom suddenly realized that the moment they opened door number four they were going to be confronted with an image that frankly he didn’t want to see.

 

“Robert wait-” Tom begged, trying to reach out and grab his father in law by the arm. “Listen to me, Thomas is going to be shocked senseless. Let’s just talk about this-!”

 

But Robert had reached the fourth door, and without another word yanked it open.

 

The room was full of candlelight, and as such shed a view on a gobsmacking scene. A large if moth eaten bed in the middle of the room gave court to the Duke and Thomas, the pair of them pressed back to back with Thomas in the front. His head was thrown back, his neck barred to the ceiling as- well-

 

Tom immediately shut his eyes to look away. It wasn’t right to view Thomas in such a scene. Thomas was private, almost aggressively so, and Tom refused to intrude upon that privacy even if Thomas was in the wrong.

 

It would be the only dignity afforded to Thomas that night.

 

“I thought so!” Robert snarled, slamming the door behind them so that the four of them were effectively sealed in. Tom peeked through one eye at the sound of gasps and scrambling, only to find Thomas and the Duke now effectively covered up with what covers were left on the bed. They were panicking, the pair of them ashen as they held tightly to one another in their terror.

 

It was sickening, to see Thomas so frightened. Thomas, who normally was sharp witted and ahead of the game. Thomas, who only hours ago had stood up to defend his mother in front of a courtroom full of jeering people.

 

Now they were the one’s jeering.

 

“What the bloody hell-!?” The duke seethed, hiding Thomas behind his back in an act of what Tom could only assume was affection.

 

“How dare you?!” Robert thundered, purple faced as he rounded upon the Duke. “How dare you sodomize my child when you are a married man!”

 

“You know nothing about it, old man!” The duke shouted back.

 

Behind the Duke’s back, Thomas’ warbling voice cut through the stiff silence. “How did you find us?”

 

“Does it matter?” Tom wondered. This wasn’t exactly the moment to be slicing through the finer points-

 

“Yes, goddamnit!” Thomas shrieked from behind the duke. In an act of fury, he clambered off the bed, wrapping himself up tight in the top sheet. The duke was left with a thick duvet coverlet to hide beneath; it was only then that Tom realized the room was scattered with shed clothing.

 

“Look at where we are-!” Thomas cried out, hysterical as he swept a shaking hand about the room. “Look at how much security and protection this place needs to survive! How the fuck did you get down here?!”

 

Tom was flabbergasted.

 

“Answer me!” Thomas screamed. Tom had never seen Thomas so humiliated, so enraged before.

 

But before Tom could answer, before Robert could begin shouting again, before anyone could frankly say anything, the door to the hallway was wrenched open again to reveal the same man in the kimono from the hall.

 

“Is everything alright?” The man demanded.

 

“No!” Thomas shrieked; he was almost in tears by this point, his eyes sparkling with humiliation.

 

At once, the man’s expression went from concerned to downright sour. He shoved the door all the way open, leaning casually upon the sill as he shouted: “JACK!”

 

Tom got maybe a minute to wonder who on earth Jack was before he appeared. He was the same black man from the top of the stairs, now looking thunderous as he surveyed the room from Thomas in the corner about to cry to Robert purple in the face.

 

Jack put two and two together to get twenty-two, and then promptly grabbed Tom by the collar to slam him into the wall. Stars burst before his eyes, and Tom reached up to grab at Jack’s meaty fingers-!

 

But then suddenly, something quite bizarre happened.

 

Thomas had never been known for his kindness or empathy below stairs, and frankly in his time above stairs nothing had changed. Tom and Thomas were not particularly friendly, and Tom did not expect their relationship to get any better after the horrors of tonight.

 

But despite all of this, despite Tom’s bad relationship with Thomas and Thomas’ penchant for acerbic rages, Thomas suddenly shot forward (almost dropping his sheet), to grab Jack by the arm so that he could not throttle Tom.

 

“No-!” Thomas shrieked. Jack paused, fingers still tight upon Tom’s throat. He looked down at Thomas with an absurdly fond expression.

 

“No, I beg of you-” Thomas pleaded. “He’s my brother in law, please.” He kept stuttering, so frightened that he repeated himself. “This is my brother in law, and that is my father… please…” He looked up at Jack with shining eyes. “I beg you don’t hurt them. I beg you.”

 

Tom was stunned. He’d never heard Thomas beg for anything in his life.

 

Jack carefully lowered Tom till his feet touched the ground again. He let go of Tom’s neck, and at once Tom took several steps back till he was at a safe distance.

 

“You will leave,” Jack rumbled, looking back and forth from Tom to Robert. “Or I will make you leave.”

 

“I don’t doubt it,” was Tom’s quick witted reply.

 

“You need to go,” the man in the kimono repeated. Before, he’d been warm to them but now he was downright cold. “This place is for men like us. If Thomas came here, it’s because he wants to be with us-”

 

“That man-!” Robert pointed a shaking finger at the Duke. “That man is married!”

 

But the man in the kimono just scoffed it off: “Half the men in this establishment are married! We have to be married to protect ourselves from men like you!”

 

And Tom could hear the venom in the man’s voice.

 

For the first time in his life, Tom could suddenly understand just how men like Thomas viewed men like him. He tried to imagine how he might have felt if their situations had been reversed; if Robert had caught him in bed with Sybil.

 

They’d intruded on something sacred, on something private… and there was no going back from that.

 

“I put forward no hostility against men like you,” Robert said. The man with the kimono did not look impressed. “But I am his father, and it is my duty set before God to protect him from others that would seek to do him harm. While I do not damn him for his preferences, I will not allow him to ruin his life.” At this, Robert turned to Thomas. He spoke in a cold authoritarian voice. “Put on your clothes at once. We’re leaving.”

 

But Thomas was rooted to the spoke, frozen like a muntjack in the eyes of a rushing motorcar. Behind him, the Duke staggered from bed, the covers almost slipping from his loins. He grabbed Thomas by the arm, holding him close.

 

“No, I rank over him Thomas, you don’t have to-”

 

But Thomas pulled his arm free of the Duke’s grip, burned by the mention of his rank.

“Stop saying that,” Thomas whispered. “It makes you sound like a prick.”

 

Slowly, he turned to gather his clothes from the floor. The Duke watched him, staggered.

 

“Thomas, you’re not going to let him bully you, are you?!” the Duke demanded. “After all that you told me tonight-!”

 

“The situations are not the same-” Thomas mumbled, stepping behind a japanese folding curtain to begin redressing.

 

“They’re exactly the same!” the Duke cried out. “You hate being a victim but go belly up for them, and it sickens me-”

 

“They’re my family, Philip!” Thomas snapped from behind the curtain.

 

“And she’s my wife!” Philip retorted. “So what’s the difference?”

 

Thomas re-emerged from behind the curtain, shrugging on his suspendors and hurriedly buttoning his dinner vest. He’d not even bothered to do his tie. Tom was horribly embaressed to find that there were tear tracks upon Thomas’ pale and sunken cheeks.

 

He’d never wanted to make Thomas cry.

 

“The difference is that I love them,” Thomas said, brushing past Philip as he headed for the door.

 

Philip watched him go, staggered. “Then-” Philip looked for a word to fling at him. “Then you’re a fool! You’re playing right into their hand when you could stay here with me!”

 

And for just a second, Thomas paused in the door. Robert was glaring at his son, furious that Thomas might even for a moment think to disobey him.

 

But there was something soft in Thomas’ eyes, something that did not strike Tom as an act of aggression or rebellion. Instead, Thomas seemed to be dawdling in a day dream where love might be accepted and his night untainted by hostility.

 

And suddenly, Tom felt quite sorry for Thomas.

 

“There’s no hand to play into, Philip,” Thomas murmured. “This is the way things are. This is the world we live in. Even the Cavour is not safe.”

 

In a move Tom did not forsee, the man in the kimono reached out to place a tender hand upon Thomas’ arm. He rubbed it comfortingly, like a lover might.

 

“Chin up, my bravest darling,” the man in the kimono whispered. He wore a strained smile which showed his years more than the lines on his face. “You will always be loved and accepted here, no matter what else happens tonight.”

 

Thomas nodded.

 

“... Thank you, Louise,” Thomas said.

Louise dropped his hand, slowly gesturing for Tom, Robert, and Thomas to make their way to the door.

 

“Thomas-!” Philip called after him, hurt and shocked.

 

“Philip enough-!” Louise interjected. “Stay here and calm down.” He shut the door to the room, effectively cutting off whatever Philip might have thought to say.

 

In a depressing line, Jack lead the way out while Robert, Tom, Thomas, and Louise followed. As they reached the top, Tom was embaressed to find there were many people in the hallway watching nervously.

 

“Everything’s fine,” Louise assured them as he passed. “Just a father and son issue, not the police.”

 

“Will they bring the police?” One man called after Louise.

 

“He’s not the type!” Louise called back.

 

They reached the top of the stairs, and took a right to return to the Cavour proper. Tom was once again shocked to find that every man was silent, many out of their chairs and a few holding to one another as if they feared the worst. Louise walked as he talked, wrapping his kimono tight around him to keep out the cold.

 

“Nothing to fear, my doves,” Louise said with a cheery voice. “All is well.”

 

The bartender leaned over the bar, catching Louise by the arm with a gentle grip. “Do I need to call the boys?” He asked.

 

“No,” Louise shook his head. “They won’t bring us any trouble.”

 

Robert paused by the door to pull his umbrella out from the throng of others. His expression was stony, and made Tom feel tense.

 

“I am not the sort of man to bode another ill for something he cannot change,” Robert said. With that, he stepped out of the Cavour, back into the rain, and re-opened his umbrella to look up at the sky. Tom carefully fetched his own umbrella. It seemed that he and Thomas would have to share. Thomas shuddered in the cold.

 

“There, you see?” Louise replied to the barman. Tom noted his tone was sarcastic. “He doesn’t bode us ill.”

 

“Yeah well what does he bode us?” the barman muttered.

 

“You know what he bodes us,” Louise muttered back.

 

Yet as Tom stepped out of the Cavour and offered Thomas his umbrella, the three of them were paused by Jack. Despite it raining, Jack did not make to stand underneath the overhang of the Cavour, and instead stood fully in the rain while Louise hung back in the doorway.

 

“I remember faces,” Jack warned Tom and Robert. “Thomas is always welcome here, but you are not. This place is not for normal men… you can never return here.”

 

Instead of replying with a sardonic answer or a cold retort, Robert instead tipped his hat to the man in a weird form of salute.

 

“Then we take our leave,” was Robert’s reply. “Gentlemen, farewell.”

 

With that, he headed out of the alley back towards the main street to flag down a taxi. Tom and Thomas were left by the overhang, with soiled water dripping at their feet.

 

“All will be well, my darling,” Louise promised Thomas. “I’ll check in on you.”

 

Thomas nodded. “Take care of Philip.”

 

“Always.”

 

Tom placed a hand carefully upon Thomas’ back, urging them away from the Cavour and back to the main street. The gale soon swallowed them up, and a minute later they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will contain a **suicide scene by poison** as well as period typical homophobia.


	5. Snakes and Sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crawley family reels from Thomas' dalliance with a Duke, only to be confronted by the true horror that is Philip Prevet's marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include **period typical homophobia, drug usage, and mentions of marital rape**.

“Do you have any shame?!”

A beat of silence with no reply.

“Any shred of shame within you?!”

Cora had been woken from what felt like the sleep of the dead by Edith, who’d been wide eyed and petrified at a row going on between her brother and her father downstairs. It had all felt rather surreal, for Thomas never argued with his father so why should he do so now? But even as Cora had struggled to put on a housecoat and had allowed Edith to take her by the hand, she’d heard the faint vestiges of shouting coming from the parlor. As she’d gone downstairs, she’d noted that the grandfather clock on the landing had indicated the time at 12:47 in the morning. Unsure of why her husband and children were still up, Cora had entered the parlor to see a wholly unexpected sight.

Tom was drinking heavily by the mantel, seemingly pouring his own glasses which was strange because Carson was just outside the door and ought to be attending him. Meanwhile Mary was sitting next to Thomas on the couch, watching him with hesitant if slightly accusatory eyes. Robert was pacing, spitting fire as he decreed that he’d just caught Thomas in a ‘den of sin’ with the Duke of Crowborrow of all people.

Still slightly sedated, all Cora could think to say was “but isn’t he married?”  
That had started the argument afresh again.

Now, Cora sat on Thomas’ other side while Edith hung at her father’s elbow. She was twittering, nervous, unsure of what to say and when to say it to make sure everyone stopped fighting. It seemed like Robert might go on for ages.

“My son-” Robert seethed, “In a den of debauchery, with a married man!” he shrieked the word, turning on his heel to glare at Thomas again. “A Duke! Did you even think for one minute?!”

Thomas did not reply, eyes cast upon the hearth which was slowly beginning to dwindle in the late hour. “Who started this?!” Robert demanded when Thomas did not answer him. “Was it you?!”

“... Does it matter?” Thomas finally asked.

“Yes, it does!”

Thomas sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to regain some strength. Cora could tell that this particular conversation weighed heavily upon his heart. “The first time, it was me. This time I… I don’t know. I suppose we just fell back into it.”

“What do you mean, ‘the first time’?” Mary asked. Unlike Robert, she did not shout. “I knew something had to be going on, it was all just so peculiar.”

“The first time I was with him, I was twenty-two,” Thomas admitted. Mary was taken aback, silently counting upon her fingers to try and come up with the appropriate year. But that would mean 1912!

“When I had my coming out season?” Edith asked.

“I was serving at the ball,” Thomas reminded them. “As first footman.”

Robert looked like he might be sick.

“God in heaven,” Robert leaned against the mantel, next to Tom who was still sucking down whiskey like he thought it might give him immortality.

“... But why?” Mary asked. “Why step out with a Duke? Wasn’t that terribly dangerous back then?”

“It’s always dangerous,” Thomas explained. Mary listened with rapt attention. “He said he thought I was beautiful. I was young and… I thought him a dream.”

“How long did it continue?” Robert demanded.

“... Two years,” Thomas mumbled.

“What then?” Robert scrounged for a word, desperately trying to put Thomas’ relationship into terms that he could understand. “A- a dalliance?”

But at this, Thomas bowed his head. He shook back and forth, a silent if ominous ‘no’.

“Robert,” Cora was still slightly punch drunk, the words falling from her lips gracelessly. “Don’t be cruel to him.”

Robert took a second to breathe, going gray as he declined the whiskey that Tom offered him.

“Then what was it?” Robert asked, gesturing aimlessly in the air. “Explain to me so that I may understand.”

“I loved him,” Thomas said. He paused to sniff. “An’ I thought he loved me. An’ maybe he did but… he needed an heiress. He had no money. I begged him to take me away with him, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have need for me. So he left me. I thought I’d never see him again, but the other night at the party, we met… and…” Thomas stopped speaking, seemingly swimming in a memory.

“And you hit it off,” Mary said. Thomas neither confirmed nor denied her theory. “So that’s why he’s been coming to dinner and popping up wherever you are. He’s in love with you.”

“I don’t know if he is,” Thomas said. “But he’s terribly upset in his marriage.”  
Robert bristled visibly at the world, causing Thomas to fall into a more bleak mood.

“I know you must hate me-” Thomas began.

“I do not hate you,” Robert snapped. “I could never hate you. You are my only son. But I am deeply disappointed in your behavior. He is married, Thomas! To a lovely young woman who weeps for his lack of affection. You are intruding upon the sanctity of their marriage by-”

“But she’s not lovely!” Thomas tried to deny. “She’s a horrible person. He’s told me so many things-”

“Did it ever occur to you that he wasn’t the best source of affections on his wife, when he’s the one seeking other company!?”

Robert shouted the words, seemingly to shock Thomas into silence. It worked, with Thomas a shade paler than before.

Tom tried for peace, though he was slightly punch drunk by now. “All married men who cheat have horrible wives. It’s a bit of a pattern.”

 

“She drugged him to sleep with her,” Thomas said. Cora was taken aback. Was such a shocking notion true, or another lie made up by the Duke to woo Thomas?

Cora noted that by the mantel, Tom has stopped drinking. Something strange had flashed in his eyes. Something close to fear.

“She’ll betray him if he ever tries to divorce her,” Thomas said. “She’ll go to the police, and tell them what he is. She’s holding him hostage with the secret of his soul, and that to me makes her a horrible person.”

He said it with such cold finality that Cora feared Thomas was beginning to turn. She did not want her son and her husband to fight. She wanted there to be peace in their household.

“Thomas-” Cora reached out, placing one hand upon his leg and the other upon his back; his muscles were stiff to the touch. “Please understand, we don’t know if those stories are actually true or if he just said them to make you sleep with him. You beginning to speak cruelly-”

“It’s not cruel to love someone,” Thomas said.

“You don’t actually love him,” Robert scoffed. “You just said yourself that you hit it off, and you’re hardly convinced of his affections-”

“Okay, so maybe I don’t love him!” Thomas retorted. He rose from the couch, now facing off with Robert in the same way Mary had done countless of times. Once again, Cora could not help but think _‘my god, they are twins’._

“But I love being with men!” Thomas continued on. “It’s the way I was made, I can’t change it about me! And besides, he’s already given her a child, he’s done everything that’s expected of him-”

“Hardly,” Robert scoffed under his breath.

“Well what do you want me to do?!” Thomas shouted. Cora had never seen him so angry before. “I can’t change what I am, and neither can he!”

“I do not ask you to!” Robert retorted. Now they were nose to nose, yelling at one another with no regard for who else heard. “I ask you to change your actions! To drop this selfish dalliance at once and stop intruding upon someone else’s marriage! To stop purveying yourself as a- as a-” Robert could not find the appropriate word for it.

“As some slut!” Robert finally lobbed out. “Because that’s not who you are!”

At the word ‘slut’, Thomas shut down. The cold anger which spread upon his face was so sickening that Cora felt her stomach begin to cramp. He folded his arms quietly over his chest, glaring at his father with sudden disdain.

“... How did you get into the Cavour?” Thomas asked. He spoke softly, but there was clear venom in his voice.

“Like it matters-” Robert tried to turn away, but Thomas stopped him mid-stride.

“Every single man who visits that bar is in jeopardy, and I will not allow you to hurt them. Louise in particular.”

Robert did not take kindly to being in an ungenerous light. “I don’t want to hurt them! And as for that whore-”

“He is a whore because his life has been ruined by people who found out his secret,” Thomas replied. Once again, Robert looked uncomfortable. “People like you… and Tom.”

Now Tom looked horribly uncomfortable too.

“I didn’t want to go in,” Tom said, his words slurred with whiskey. “I didn’t think it right. I never wanted to see you like that… I’m sorry, I truly am.”

“Prove it,” Thomas said. “And tell me how you got in.”

“We just-” Tom had to pause for a moment, trying to figure out the correct words when he was half-toasted. “We just walked in and pretended we knew the handshake. Said we were looking for you. Waited till someone came out of the basement and then got in.”

Thomas nodded, pursing his lips and carefully rubbing his chin in thought.

He turned to go, walking silently across the parlor until to pause at the door. He then turned, looking back at his father with clear disdain.

“Just so we’re clear,” Thomas said coldly, “What you did tonight? Entering the Cavour under false pretenses, fooling the people there, tricking Jack and Louise into showing you downstairs where only men like me are meant to go? Worming yourself into the only place on earth that men like me are safe? That was absolutely unforgivable… and I will not be forgetting it.”

And with that, Thomas walked out.

 

~*~

 

It was a restless night for Thomas, and one spent spinning in thoughts of unbridled hatred, cold callousness, burning regret, and awful stings of painful embarrassment. He wept intermittently, unable to keep from spewing with excess emotion. As a result, he gained little more than two hours sleep and when he did awake for the final time it was perhaps around five in the morning. A cold shimmering blue light illuminated his bedroom, but not much more. The fire in his personal grate had gone out, and Thomas felt awfully cold in his bed. With his eyes still swollen from crying all night, Thomas had decided there was no point in laying in bed awake, and had put on his clothes to instead venture downstairs.

No one was up, not even the maids. The family would be returning home today on the nine o’clock train to York, leaving Thomas far away from the Cavour. He surmised, in that quiet moment of reflection sitting upon the stairs, that he ought to visit now and speak with Jack and Louise privately before he lost the chance.

Thomas did not bother with a traveling coat or a hat. Instead, he walked the streets of a London bathed in dawn with only his shirtsleeves, suspenders, and trousers. He was the only one to walk the streets. Knockers were no longer in employ with alarm clocks being sold in general stores, and street sweeps had already come by to douse the gas lamps which kept London alight at night. The only company that Thomas kept on his walk to Leicester Square was a stray dog rummaging through a bin for scraps, and a homeless man sleeping in the park underneath a blanket made from a cut potato sack.

The rain from last night had left puddles all in the street. Leicester Square was oddly dirtier than other parts of London, and in the dawn it seemed to be otherworldly. There were no bawdy women in tuxes strutting about with mols on their arm. There were no men in frocks hanging out of upstairs windows, calling for friends off the street.

Instead, there was nothing but a fine mist rolling on the ground, carefully obscuring cigarette butts and empty bottles of beer. Thomas rounded the corner to the Cavour, expecting to find it deserted, but instead was mildly pleased to see Jack of all people sitting on the from stoop having a dish of fish and chips from a plate made of folded newspaper. He was seemingly lost in his own world, absent minded as Thomas walked up.

Jack paused mid-bite, looking up to find Thomas standing over him. Jack smiled around a mouthful of battered cod.

“Thomas,” Jack greeted him.

“Hello, Jack,” Thomas said. He felt undeniably fond for the man, who was seemingly normal and yet risked so much to keep men like Thomas safe. He sat down next to Jack on the steep, gesturing to the darkened Cavour behind him. “May I come in? I want to speak to security.”

Jack just grinned. “I am security.”  
He had a point, at that.

“Still in one piece!” Jack said, pausing to eat a few chips. “That’s comforting.”

“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” Thomas said. “But I wanted to tell you how my father and brother in law got into the Cavour.”

“Tell me,” Jack said.

“When they entered, they asked the waiter if I was here, and he said I was downstairs. He asked if they knew the knock. They didn’t but pretended they did. When someone came out from the basement they entered.”

“An’ I stopped them, an’ they lied to me too,” Jack grumbled, wiping his greasy fingers upon his newspaper plate. “Making me a right mug.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Thomas murmured.

Jack let out a tiny sigh, thinking for a moment before deciding what to do. “I’ll enact a few changes in my men. We’ll say we know nothing about patrons inside the club. Never mention names or rooms. If they don't knock on the basement, they don’t enter.”

The sound of the Cavour door opening made both Jack and Thomas look around. Thomas was surprised to see Louise smoking a cigarette out of a long lady’s holder which seemed to be made of Jade. He was dazed, blue eyes muddy with drugs as he smiled lazily down at Jack.

“Jack-” Louise reached out, tenderly running his fingers through the kinks in Jack’s thick hair. “Come play-”

“Bed time, Louise,” Jack said.

“No-” Louise whined. “Play with me!”

“Excuse me-” Jack was on the verge of laughing, making his excuses to Thomas before setting his dish on the steps and rising up to pull Louise away from the door. “Come on you, back to bed-”

“Baa baa, I’m a little sheep!” At this, Louise broke into a round of hysterical if muddied laughter. “Baa! Baa! Help me!”

Up the stairs Jack went, taking Louise with him. Thomas watched, slightly amused at Louise’s antics. The air stunk of opium from Louise’s pipe. Thomas had to wonder just how stoned the man was. After about fifteen minutes Jack returned with Louise’s jade pipe in hand. He sat back down on the sill, with his pipe between them, and resumed eating his fish and chips.

But he was smiling.

Thomas grinned, “You like him.”

Jack glanced at him but said nothing, so Thomas repeated himself. “Louise. You like him.”

Jack just shook his head. “Maybe. Suppose that makes me a fool.”

“I think it’s romantic,” Thomas said.

“They tell me he’s soft to everyone, but it’s different with me,” Jack finally said, finishing up his dish to ball up the newspaper and toss it into the alley. He picked up Louise’s pipe, running his fingers carefully over the jade mouthpiece. “I can tell. I can feel it. I suppose, if I were a different man, I might say I love him. But it’s not in me to love. I was born in America, and men like me were not granted the privilege of being able to love without suffering.”

“So it’s the same over there?” Thomas wondered.

Jack just gave him a tiny smile. He gestured to himself, up and down. “My color.”

“Oh-” Thomas felt a bit like a fool. “How did you get out?”

“Snuck on board a ship. Didn’t realize it was bound for the port of London,” Jack said. “If it hadn’t been for Louise… I’d have died. You could say, he saved me.”

For some reason, that put a flutter of emotion in Thomas’ hardened heart. “I’m glad you're here, Jack,” Thomas rose up from the stoop, dusting off his backside where flecks of dirt had become embedded into his trousers.

It suddenly occurred to Thomas that he had his calling cards stashed in the pocket of his trousers, and pulled one out to lend to Jack. He took it, curious.

“This is my calling card,” Thomas explained. “Give it to Louise. If you ever need me for anything, don’t hesitate. I’ll always receive you.”

“A black man and a bunch of gay whores?” Jack scoffed.

“That’s my favorite kind of company,” Thomas said.

With that, he turned off and headed back down the street. He would have to be quick to make it back to the house in time to catch the train to York.

 

~*~

 

The train back to York was horribly awkward. Thomas said nothing, stony and silent as he stared out the window on a rushing scene of gray, green, and brown. Across from him, Robert sat stewing, waiting for Thomas to say something. Anything.

“Carson says a scullery maid saw you leave the house this morning,” Robert said. There was an undeniably accusatory edge to his voice. “At a quarter to five. Do you have any explanation for that?”

“The security at the Cavour,” Thomas replied icily. Robert just fumed even more.

“And I suppose you didn’t meant Philip Prevet there?” Robert added.

“No.”

“Good.” Robert folded his arms grumpily over his chest, looking like a rather impatient spinster aunt. “Let’s keep it that way.”

When Thomas ground his jaw tight to stop himself from replying kind, the terrible silence was allowed to drag on and on. Finally, it was broken again by his mother, who reached out with a hand upon his leg to say, “It’s for the best.”

Thomas didn’t know who was more insulting.

Upon arriving in York, Thomas and his family were put into two motorcars so that for another two hours they rode in stony silence. Every so often, either Edith or Tom tried to make conversation but they ended up talking to each other more than not. Thomas, Mary, Cora, and Robert were resolutely silent.

Downton Abbey did not feel much like a sanctuary upon arrival. As their bags were unloaded and the staff rejoined their fellows, Thomas looked longingly upon their persons. Mr. Carson was making rapid, hushed whispers with Bates who seemed to be groaning. Mrs. Hughes kept gesturing timidly from Thomas to Robert, speaking to Mrs. Patmore, Anna, and Baxter where none could hear. Andy, caught amid all of it, just acted terribly awkward as he brought all their baggage inside by himself.

Thomas wasted no time heading upstairs, declining to take tea with his family as he instead undressed from his traveling clothes and put on his barn clothes. He felt this overwhelming, burning desire to see Arion again. To feel the comfort of leaning against his horse and hearing Arion’s massive heart beating away inside. When he did return downstairs, he passed by the door to the pink parlor only to be called back by Mary’s voice.

“Thomas-!”

He paused mid-stride, cautiously returning to the parlor to find his family taking tea. Robert was drinking whiskey, which was unusual given that he had been told to refrain from alcohol by his doctor and it was only two in the afternoon. He did not even deign to look at Thomas, instead glowering at the fireplace while he leaned heavily upon the mantle.

“Why are you dressed in your barn clothes?” Mary asked. “Surely you’re too tired for Arion, after the train.”

“No,” Thomas shrugged. “I want to be with him. It’ll make me feel better.”

“Yes, I should imagine a kick in the head would do you good,” Robert muttered from the mantel. Maybe he thought that no one would hear him, but unfortunately everyone did. Cora was taken aback.

“Robert,” she scoffed. “Really, you’re acting terribly rude.”

Robert grimace, setting his whiskey aside. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Thomas snapped from the doorway. “You shouldn’t.”  
He left his family in the pink parlor, absolutely furious with the lot of them as he headed out to the barn.

 

 

 

The next few days were spent in an awful, awkward tumble of hours where Thomas avoided his family and instead spent all of his waking time with Arion. Mary paid calls, Tom worked on the estate, Robert took walks with Tiaa, Cora traveled back and forth from the hospital, and Edith prepared for her wedding. Each of them were busy spinning inside their own circles, completely content with life, and as a result, Thomas suddenly felt like an outsider again. He could not stand the way things had been left with Philip, Louise, and Jack. He kept recalling that awful night, and wondering how things would have changed if only his father had not found him.

_“I ask you to change your actions! To drop this selfish dalliance at once and stop intruding upon someone else’s marriage! To stop purveying yourself as some slut! Because that’s not who you are!”_

But Thomas could not change, and the dalliance was not selfish. Philip was sinking, and fast. He’d grown from being miserable to being manic, searching for solutions in every dark hole he stumbled over.

To be called a ‘slut’ by his father had shamed him, burned him, and as a result Thomas could not bear in the same room as Robert.

He took meals in his room.  
He stopped coming down for breakfast.

Anything to avoid the eyes of a man who thought him a disgrace.

 _“Explain to me so that I may understand.”_ Robert had said.  
But Thomas did not know how to explain empathy to a man who did not realize he was lacking it.

 

In the end, everything fell apart not with one terrible swing but with one brick at a time. Slowly, the facade of a normal family was removed to reveal the dysfunctional Crawley unit beneath. Thomas’ downfall started on a gray and cloudy day with the heavy threat of rain overhead. As a result, Thomas was out riding Arion early, taking him over hills and through forests so that he might be properly exercised before the weather went foul. When the thunder and lightning became too awful to avoid properly, Thomas was forced to turn back and return to Downton Abbey.

It was beginning to rain when Thomas made it back to the barn, but before he could reign Arion in and proceed with a good brushing session, a dark blot on the horizon turned into Mrs. Hughes hurrying out the front door of the abby.

Thomas watched through squinted eyes, surprised to find that a spare motorcar was in the driveway. Who had come to visit in such a gale?

“Thomas-!” Mrs. Hughes called out to him over the wind. As she approached, she came too close to Arion in her distress. Arion reared, angry, forcing Thomas to jerk back hard on the reigns to keep Mrs. Hughes from harm.

“Ey-!” Thomas barked at his horse. “Easy!”

Arion snorted, pawing irritably in the mud. Mrs. Hughes was fearful of Arion, careful not to get too close lest he try and bite her.

“Thomas, you must come with me quickly,” He’d not heard her use his Christian name since it had been revealed he was the missing Crawley son. It put a stab of fear in his heart; why was she so panicked? “Put Arion up in the barn.”

Thinking disaster had occurred, Thomas quickly took Arion into the barn, leaving him in the care of Mr. Colton.

“Wash him down, please!” Thomas bade. “Mrs. Hughes wants me to go with her and quickly.”

“Aye, you better!” Mr. Colton warned. For whatever reason, he looked concerned. “Hell’s about to break loose.”

Even more concerned than before, Thomas began to follow Mrs. Hughes backup to Downton Abbey; she was steering him towards the servant’s passageway which took a wanderer back to the area yard.

“What’s wrong?” Thomas had to speak loudly to be heard over the wind. “Whose car is in the drive? Has something happened to Cora-”

“The Duke of Crowborrow has come,” Mrs. Hughes admitted. Thomas stopped in his tracks so that she was forced to do the same. Why on earth had Philip come to Downton Abbey, after all that had occurred at the Cavour? Surely he knew how unwise it was!

“He’s mad,” Mrs. Hughes said. “He’s saying things that make no sense. Lord Grantham wants you to remain downstairs with the servants until he leaves-”

If Philip had traveled to Downton Abbey in a gale, and was now being portrayed as mad, Thomas knew point blank it would be fruitless for him to go downstairs. He needed to speak with Philip, to offer him counsel, and find out what atrocity had occurred to reduce Philip to a rambling state.

“No-” Thomas pulled away from Mrs. Hughes, making his way to the front door through the rain.

“No?!” She was affronted, having never heard him flat out refuse her.

“No!” Thomas shouted angrily over his shoulder.  
Enough was enough.

 

Thomas burst through the front door only to be confronted dripping wet by Andy. He looked panicked.

“The library-” Andy said, pointing to it with a shaking finger. Thomas did not bother to towel off or fix his hair; he stormed across the entrance hall leaving a small trail in his wake. Even outside the library, Thomas could hear shouting and panicked demands. Philip was not ranting, he was _screaming_ , and whatever he was screaming about had Robert Crawley up in arms.

_“I need him! I need him and I won’t be denied him! I have a shot to take him away from here-”_

_“To run away like a thief in the night!”_ Robert shouted back.

 _“Away from your wife, who adores you!”_ Cora added.

 _“Adores me?!”_ Philip shrieked. _“She is a chain around my soul, dragging me down to hell-!”_

Thomas burst into the library to be confronted by the sight of the entire Crawley clan facing off against their unwanted visitor. Philip was clearly unwell, with waxy ashen skin. He was dressed, but not well, and had not bothered to do up his tie properly. He seemed close to tears.

“Thomas-!” Robert was scandalized to find him in the door. “Go downstairs at once-”

“What’s wrong with you?” Thomas demanded; how could it be that his whole family was watching a man fall apart and were ambivalent about it. “Look at him! He’s in pieces and you’re patronizing him!”

“He’s not in his right mind-” Robert tried to say, but Philip cut across him. He staggered up to Thomas, seizing him by the hands to hold them in a sweating, shaking grip.

“Thomas, we have to get out of the country,” Philip said. “We have to go somewhere far away, and quickly. I have connections in India-”

“Philip-” Thomas tried to take his hands out of Philip’s grip, but Philip was still holding him much too hard.

“If we leave tonight, we could get there in three weeks-”

“Philip-”

“I’ve already called ahead-”

“Philip!” Thomas cried out, furious at being spoken over.  
Philip paused, waxen skin shining in a cold sweat. The library had fallen into an awkward silence, with each person waiting to see what Thomas and Philip would say to one another.

“What on earth is wrong?” Thomas asked. “Why are you acting so daft? What’s happened to shake you up so much? You’re acting like a lunatic and it’s not….” Thomas shook his head, “It’s not you. I know it isn’t.”

Philip swallowed audibly, the tiniest bead of nervous sweat trickling down his temple.

“She knows,” Philip said. It was more of a whisper, as if he were too afraid to invoke the truth out loud lest it come chasing him.

“Who knows what?” Thomas asked.

“My _bitch_ of a wife-!” Philip cursed, bowing his head, “She knows about us. She found your letters-”

“Letters?!” Cora gasped the word. Suddenly, the whole aura of the room shifted with such swift and sudden panic that Thomas did not know how to control it.

“God in heaven!” Robert groaned aloud.

“Tell me you weren’t that stupid-” Tom cursed from the mantel.

“Enough!” Thomas shouted at his family, furious at their meddling. “I’ll have you lot know I haven’t written him anything!”

The babble died down again. Thomas turned to Philip who was still sweaty and shaken. “Are you referring to the letters I wrote you in 1914?”

“... I kept them, I confess it,” Philip said. There was great shame in his voice.

“Mary, Jesus, and Joseph-” Tom groaned, laying his head atop the mantle. Robert looked like he might be sick.

But where his family was ready to throw in the towel, Thomas was thinking. If the enemy had a weapon, and they did not, then there was only one thing to do. Strike a deal.

“... What does she want?” Thomas asked Philip.

“My head on a stick,” Philip scoffed. He turned away, taking a moment to wipe the copious amounts of sweat off his forehead.

“Give her money,” Thomas offered.

“I don’t have any.”

“Then bribe her with anything else-!” Thomas couldn’t stand Philip’s belly-up attitude. Jesus, he wasn’t even trying to fight. Had the woman really sucked so much out of him? “Position, influence, power, what do you have that she’d like besides your balls--?”

“What are you saying?!” Cora rose up from the couch, horrified by Thomas’ callous attitude. “Thomas, she is his wife! She doesn’t need to be bribed! She’s just discovered her husband, who ought to be loyal to her and her alone, is having an affair with a man of all people! A man she knew and respected! She doesn’t need to be bribed, she needs to be consoled.”

“Consoled!” Philip let out an ugly cackling laugh at this. “That’s a goddamn laugh!”

“You are a heartless man,” Robert cursed. Philip began to bluster, becoming emotional at Robert’s words.

“You know nothing about my misery!” Philip screamed. “She knew the whole sodding time what I was, do you know what she did to me?! Do you?!”

He looked left, he looked right, chest heaving and hands trembling. “She drugged me-” He choked out. Thomas was sickened to see a tear of shame slip down his cheek. Philip continued on, utterly humiliated. “She slipped pills in my drinks, all to sleep with me to make me normal-”

“I won’t believe it,” Robert said.

Philip couldn’t stand it. It was obvious having to admit that he’d been drugged and raped by his wife had been extremely difficult. To be shot down so quickly, and so thoughtlessly made him go wild.

“She raped me!” Philip shrieked. “I didn’t want it, man! I’ve been hounded by that vile bitch for years and have prayed for her death every night! I gladly admit it!”

“That’s disgusting!” Edith swore from the couch, sickened by Philip’s words. “Thomas, how can you be with this man?”

“I’m sorry, did no one just hear him say he’d been raped and drugged?!” Thomas demanded outraged. “Are you all so obsessed with the idea that his wife is innocent that you’re going to overlook-”

“He’s lying,” Robert shot down.

“Does he look like he’s lying?!” Thomas gestured wildly to Philip’s ashen face. “Because he looks like he’s on the verge of a hysterical break down to me!”

“Then you are gullible!” Robert warned him. “I’ve seen this man lie before, and I will not be taken in again!”

“It’s not right to wish for your wife to die,” Edith added.

“But this isn’t a normal situation, Edith!” Thomas demanded. “If you were in the same situation, you’d be resorted to horrible measures to! Imagine being married to a man that drugged you to force you to sleep with them! Is that the kind of life you’d willingly accept?!”

Edith didn’t quite know what to say to that. She sat flabbergasted upon the couch, seeing to realize that the family was dealing with matters that were quite outside the ordinary. She looked to Mary, who was just as unsure.

“What did she say?” Mary asked Philip. “When she confronted you?”

“That she’d go to the police,” Philip sniffed, wiping his nose on his already moist handkerchief.

“She wouldn’t dare-” Robert scoffed, turning his back to Philip.

“What wouldn’t she do to get her way?!” Philip retorted. “She’s going to destroy us both unless I can get Thomas out of England.”

At this, Philip turned back to Thomas. “So we have to leave now, before the sun sets. The more time on our side-”

“No,” Cora interjected.

“If we’re smart, we can change our names and start a whole new life-”

“NO!”

Cora had finally had enough. She pushed herself forcibly between Thomas and Philip, taking no prisoners until space was made to accommodate her. She spread out her arms wide, as if to physically barricade Philip from touching Thomas.

Thomas had not seen her so enraged since Alice Barrow’s trial. She certainly looked ready to spew fire now!

“I was parted with my son for nearly thirty years, I will not be parted with him for one day more. I can only imagine that you have been departed from your senses. I hope they return to you, but I will not allow you to drag my son along in some wild scheme. “ Cora declared.

Philip tried to reach around her, but Cora would not let him pass.

“Thomas-” Philip tried again only to fail. “Get out of the way-!” He demanded.

“Don’t shout at my mother!” Thomas retorted. As annoying as she was being in the moment, he could not stand the idea of someone being cross with her (even Philip).

“Thomas, come with me,” Philip begged. He was close to the breaking point, his eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “Just come with me!”

But Thomas knew that he could not go with Philip, that he could not leave his family and run away to India. As much as he enjoyed his time with Philip, he did not love him, and he knew that it would destroy his mother to be parted from her once again.

Thomas slowly shook his head, heart bursting with empathy for the broken man before him.  
“Philip… “ Thomas whispered. “You know I can’t do that.”

Philip slumped, all the fight leaving his body in an awful rush. He staggered over to an ancient armchair only to collapse in it, his head in his hand. When Thomas tried to reach out and touch his shoulder consolingly, Philip jerked away, furious.

“No point-” Philip choked out, his voice grated and raw. “There’s no point.”

But Thomas knew the words of a dangerous man when he heard them. He could remember saying much the same when Phyllis Baxter had once tried to console him about his job situation. He’d felt like he was screaming in a crowded room and no one was listening to him. Philip was much the same, and it terrified Thomas. He dropped to his knees, trying to get Philip to look at him through his hands.

“Philip, no!” Thomas protested. He braced Philip’s shaking knees, squeezing them tightly. “There is a point! It just isn’t me-”

“Then who is it?!” Philip shrieked. It seemed that he could not stand to be touched by Philip, for he jerked away only to begin tearing at his own hair. He staggered up out of the chair, wandering the library like a maniac. “Where is my person?! Over ten years, I’ve been chained to a witch from the deepest pits of hell who delights in sucking the very soul out of me, and for what-- to be told I must keep my senses?!”

Philip spun on his heel, screaming at Robert who’d gone the color of ash. “Is that all that I may be granted to keep?! Some fucking meagre vestige of my sanity so that I may be knowingly aware of how horrible my existence is?!”

But in the silence that followed Philip’s emotional outburst, Robert seemed to grow cold. Whatever Philip had been hoping to get from Robert, he’d come up short.

“... Philip-” Thomas began to say, but Robert cut him off in a cold voice.

“Go home,” Robert ordered. Philip looked like he’d been slapped. “Go home to your family and gather yourself. You have no place here. If you return again and make such a scene before my wife and children, I shall ring the police.”

Taken aback, Philip trembled as he turned to Thomas. He was lost, Thomas could see it clearly. He did not know what to do.

“And you?” Philip croaked.

But the facts remained the same for however much Thomas hated them: “Philip… I cannot go to India. I can’t do that to my mother-”

“Mother-” Philip scoffed. Fat tears of shame spilled down his sunken cheeks. When he looked at Thomas again, all his fear had been replaced by ugly rage.

“You always were a snake,” Philip seethed. “You were as a servant, and you are now as a Viscount.”

He stumbled out of the library, not even bothering to close the door behind him as he went. Thomas had to close his eyes for a moment, ashen as he slowly touched his temples and massaged at the staggering pain he felt there. Was he a snake? He certainly felt like one in that moment. But he couldn’t have gone to India, when he didn’t love Philip and he knew what it would do to his mother.

But as Thomas opened his eyes again to observe his father, he felt such sick loathing within him that it made him want to weep. These people would never understand the terrible woes that he faced on a daily basis. They would judge him, no matter if they were his family or not, wondering why he couldn’t keep to civilized propriety even while they slept in beds warmed by their spouses.

Today it was Philip, tomorrow it would be Thomas himself, he was certain.  
One day, they would all turn on him, and demand he ‘gather himself’.

Robert was the first to speak, reproachful but firm. “I know you are angry with me, but what I’ve done today, I’ve done to save you-”

Thomas held up a hand for silence. Robert gave it to him.

 

“... Don’t,” Thomas said. He turned to the library door, wanting nothing more than to be alone.  
“Don’t talk to me, for a very very long time.”


	6. Death and Other Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crawley family tries an age old cure for a homosexual son, only to discover Thomas won't play ball. But while Thomas has solutions, Philip does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter include spoilers. If you have triggers, please see the end notes to make sure your trigger is not included. 
> 
>  
> 
> While I recognize the ending of this chapter may heavily upset some of you, please note that what I do, I do for a reason. Put your faith in me, and you will have a happy ending.

Things only got worse after that.

Thomas wrote to Philip, and even tried to call him twice, but his letters had gone unanswered and his phone calls had been disconnected. The stony silence which greeted him was worrisome, because Thomas was almost certain Philip was on the breaking point. If it weren’t mad to consider, Thomas might have thought to physically broach Crowborrow Manor… but he knew if he were to go that he’d be turned away. Either Philip’s wife was keeping Philip on a chain, or Philip himself simply didn’t want to speak to Thomas anymore. After the horrors of the library visit, Thomas couldn’t blame him.

It had felt maddening, to watch his father see Philip break down with such apathy and disinterest. Did it really matter that Philip wasn’t a member of their family? He was a member of the human race. He had feelings, and fears. Even if Thomas didn’t love him, that didn’t mean that he didn’t care Philip was hurting. He’d seen madness in the man’s eyes, and knew the end was coming. But whether Robert Crawley cared or not, Thomas couldn’t say. He’d spent the last two weeks thoroughly avoiding his family.

His days started all the same. He woke early, and went out to the barn where he greeted Arion and took him on long healthy rides. This was the only part of Thomas’ day which brought him any pleasure. When he returned, it was usually after lunch, and he would wash Arion before heading back inside to clean himself. Then, he would spend the remaining hours of his day locked in his personal study, writing letters that Philip would undoubtedly not answer and reading books late into the night. If he was asked to dinner, he declined and said that he was unwell. If a member of his family wanted to speak with him, Thomas made himself as stoic and still as possible until they lost interest and left. The only member of his family that he could not seem to shake nor annoy was Mary, who resolutely stood by his side in the face of his family quarrels.

One October afternoon, when the air was turning crisp and the nights chilly, Thomas was fitting Arion with a new blanket that he would wear through the winter. It was a deep emerald green to match the Crawley family colors, and even had his name embroidered on the side in silver. As Thomas adjust the collar of Arion’s coat around his massive throat, a shadow slipped into the barn and hovered on his peripheral vision.

Thomas glanced about to find Mary watching him with a sad little smile.

“New frock?” She teased.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” Thomas grumbled. Mary was cautious to approach, for even after several months Arion did not like being harrassed by other members of the family. Arion snorted, eyeing her warily as if judging her for a threat.

“Mama has guests she wants you to meet,” Mary said. “They’re taking tea now. She’s asked me to come fetch you.”

Thomas sighed, already feeling utterly exhausted from a social interaction he hadn’t even had yet.

“Who?” Thomas asked, his voice dull and flat.

“Lord and Lady Ringall, our cousins from the south,” Mary said. “And their daughter, Elizabeth.”

Thomas sighed again, carefully stroking Arion’s muzzle. Arion blinked at him, as if to say, _Don’t look at me for help, I’m a horse._

“... I know it’s wretched,” Mary finally said. “To pretend like nothing’s wrong. But it’s not the Ringwall’s fault, nor their daughter’s.”

Thomas supposed this was quite true.

“You’ve been avoiding all of us,” Mary mused. “I know it’s because of Philip.”

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Thomas cut his twin off. He did not want to talk about Philip with anyone, even Mary.

“I know you’re angry,” Mary refused to take a hint or leave. “But papa was right. Going with him would have been a horrible mistake-”

“I know that Mary,” Thomas warned. Mary paused, sensing the layered anger in his voice. “I know.”

“Then… perhaps it’s time to put this behind us, as a family?” Mary asked.

“No,” Thomas shook his head. It wasn’t time yet. He wasn’t ready; he was still angry.  
Mary was unsure what else to do or say; she chewed on her bottom lip, watching him fretfully.

Finally unable to deny her anymore, Thomas set down Arion’s brush and patted his steed fondly on the neck.

“I’ll be back,” Thomas promised him. Arion watched him go, pawing at the dirt beneath his heavy cloven hooves.

 

He could not immediately take tea after returning from the barn. Instead, Thomas had to return to his rooms in order to wash and change. Despite knowing that he was expected and that time was ticking on, Thomas could not help but move at a leisurely pace. Upon returning to the entrance hall and the pink parlor, he felt almost like moping. The sound of tinkling laughter from the parlor made his teeth ache. He didn’t want to enjoy tea with the Ringwalls. He didn’t want to enjoy tea with anybody.

He was still too angry.

When he opened the door to the pink parlor, he found Carson standing at attention over a fine wedgewood china tea set, and a fire crackling merrily in the hearth. The Ringwalls were back, each of them wearing cheery smiles, and sitting on a red velvet chair was a young woman surely no older than sixteen. She was bright, beautiful, and had enormous rolls of golden hair bound up in intricate knots that reminded Thomas of his youth. When she looked about to find Thomas in the doorway, the girl lit up with a delighted smile. He noted that her eyes were a sparkling blue. He wondered what she saw in him, to get so excited.

“Thomas!” Lord Ringwall rose from his seat next to Cora in order to shake Thomas’ hand. “How good to see you again. I hear you’ve been settling in well.”

So it seemed Cora had been lying to people. “How do you do Lord Ringwall.”

“I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to my daughter, Lady Elizabeth?” Lord Ringwall said. “She’s just been shown off at court.”

“We’re very proud of her,” Lady Ringwall gushed from the couch.

“Lady Elizabeth,” Thomas took her hand, noting that Elizabeth’s grip was so light it was comparable to sugar glass.

“Lord Downton,” Her voice was just as soft and feathery. Everything about her repulsed him. “Papa has told me all about you. They say you’re a _marvelous_ rider.”

“He would be if he had a marvelous horse,” Mary said, casually stirring lemon into her tea.

“Mary is of the opinion Thomas’ horse is a hurricane,” Cora said with a gentle smile.

“It’s not an opinion, it’s a fact,” Robert said. The sound of his father’s voice made Thomas stiffen. In an effort to slip through the conversation un noticed, Thomas took up position near the mantel and spent his time looking into it. Carson offered him tea but Thomas silently declined. Taking tea with his family somehow felt like an admission of defeat, and that did not set right with him. He was furious, and he wanted them to know.

“Thomas-”

Thomas jerked from his revery, looking around to find that nearly everyone was staring at him expectantly. He flushed, cheeks burning as he looked to Mary for answers. Had someone been speaking to him? How long had he been staring at the fire?

“Please be mindful of our guests,” Cora warned. Though she did not speak in anger, Thomas could hear the threat in her voice. “Lady Elizabeth was speaking to you.”

Thomas coughed, having to re-fix his expression into something close to apathy. He looked to Lady Elizabeth, who seemed terribly nervous teetering on the edge of her chair. “I was in a fog,” He explained to her. “Could you please repeat your question?”

“I was only wondering what you were thinking about,” Elizabeth said. But Thomas could not rightly answer that question without scarring the girl for life.

“...Nothing important,” he lied.

In an attempt to salvage conversation, Lady Elizabeth quickly changed subjects. “Do you enjoying hunting, Lord Downton?” she asked.

“It’s alright-” he almost turned back to the fireplace until he noticed Cora glaring at him. He was taken aback; what was she angry at him for?

“... I wasn’t brought up in it,” Thomas said, before returning his gaze to the fire.

“No,” Lady Elizabeth paused, slightly pensive, “but papa told me not to talk about that.”

She was a fragile, tender thing. Barely an opened rose. Thomas gave her a tight smile, but wished she’d stop speaking to him. So battered and bruised was he that he felt she might smash herself against his person if she tried to befriend him.

“I’m terribly sorry, you know,” Lady Elizabeth said. “For everything.”

“You don’t need to be,” Thomas said. “It’s just the way things are-” He paused, noting the crackling embers in the hearth. “My life was never meant to be easy.”

He could not help but wonder what his life would have been like if he’d been born a normal man. Would he have been educated at Harrow and Oxford? Would he have gone to Europe for a grand tour season, and dabbled in the dark hollows of France? Would he have found love, or would he have played too hard and been culled by his family? Would he have married?

“You seem pensive.”

Thomas jerked, looking over his shoulder again at Lady Elizabeth. Why did she keep trying to engage him in conversation?

“I was just thinking,” Thomas said, returning to the fireplace.

“Good thoughts?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

Thomas did not reply. He wished he could leave; god, what a bore it was to engage such a young, feckless woman. He doubted she’d ever done anything interesting in her life.

“I’m quite captivated by music.” Lady Elizabeth said. “Do you like music?”

Thomas shrugged, only to pause when he noted that both Robert and Cora were staring icily at him. What on earth was going on? Cora tilted her head, eyes flicking back and forth from Thomas to Lady Elizabeth.

He sighed, then turned about to fold his arms over his chest; if she wanted to talk to him, she’d talk to him alright.

“What do you enjoy?” Thomas asked her. He did not pretend to be happy, instead allowing her to see the grunt of his irritation.

“I sing opera!” Lady Elizabeth said brightly. “And classical. But my favorite is Christmas carols. I love Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday. Do you like Christmas?”

“Honestly, I never celebrated it much,” Thomas said. “I mean, we’d have Christmas morning’s off to eat a small feast downstairs, but then it was straight back to work. And I certainly never got presents.”

“Did you sing carols?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

“Oh no, Mr. Carson wouldn’t allow that,” Thomas shook his head, gesturing to the nervous butler in the corner. “But sometimes if a maid was good at piano she’d play a tune like Silent Night.”

“Silent Night is beautiful,” Lady Elizabeth agreed, pausing to take a sip of tea. “But I always enjoy something bright and cheerful like Hark the Herald. Which one’s your favorite?”

“I don’t have one,” Thomas said.

“Do you have a favorite holiday, then?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

“Servants don’t celebrate holidays,” Thomas explained to her. “We work through them. Christmas and New Years were different of course. We had Christmas morning’s off, but went back to work at ten, and then we had a servant’s ball on New Years, which ended with us having a small glass of wine in the basement. Holidays to us never truly mattered unless we got a few hours off to get some chore done.”

“What’s it like being a servant?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

“Shit,” Thomas replied. Lady Elizabeth was taken aback.

“James!” Thomas stiffened at the use of his first name, glancing up to see that his father looked ready to spit out fire. Cora had a hand over her eyes, as if terribly embarrassed by Thomas’ behavior. Lord and Lady Ringwall were merely entranced, wondering at Thomas’ outlandish behavior.

“Papa always told me never to curse,” Lady Elizabeth wondered. For the first time in their conversation, she seemed to be growing nervous about Thomas’ irritable disposition. To hide her worry, she instead stared into her teacup.

“Men are different, Lizzie,” Lord Ringwall told his daughter with a gentle smile.

“Sorry if I shocked you,” Thomas said. “But an honest question deserves an honest answer. Servants live horrible lives and they deserve all the respect you can give them.”

“Oh I’m always kind to my servants,” Lady Elizabeth said with a small shrug. “I always thought they had it very easy.”

Thomas had never heard a more stupid assumption.

“Right,” Thomas rubbed at the back of his neck, exhausted by the whole affair. “Well I hate to dine and dash, but I’m heading back out to Arion. I’ve not given him a bath yet, and I don’t want him going to bed dirty tonight-”

But the mention of his horse seemed to spark renewed interest in Lady Elizabeth. She looked up at him with delight. “Oh, won’t you take me? I adore ponies!”

Thomas blinked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea-”

“Thomas-” Cora was on her last limb with him, absolutely irritated by his behavior. “Take Lady Elizabeth to see Arion. Please.”

Uneager to be alone with the girl, Thomas looked to his twin for support. “Mary, with you come with us?”

Mary almost rose up from the couch until Cora took her by the arm to force her to stay.  
“Mary, stay.” Cora commanded. “Thomas, go.”

And suddenly, Thomas could not help but note all the coincidences.

The Ringwalls were distant cousins, and perfect marrying material to keep money in the family. Their only child, Elizabeth, had just been presented at court. Her mother a month ago had all but flung Elizabeth at him in prospects of marriage. Now Elizabeth had spent the entire tea time babbling to him, trying to engage him in conversation. She wanted to see Arion, which by rights was a terrible idea even if she wasn’t newly plucked from her mother’s skirts. Still, Cora and Robert were demanding she go, and that Thomas take her alone.

She’d been brought here with the hope that Thomas would court her.  
She’d been brought here as a potential marriage partner.

And that infuriated him.

Thomas looked to Lady Elizabeth, a cold smile spreading across his face. “Well then. Follow me.”

As he turned to go, Thomas overhead Lady Ringwall whispering to her daughter: “Don’t overdo it. Act natural.”

Overdo it, indeed?

 

Lady Elizabeth trotted after him, pausing at the front door to take her parasol from Andy. When Andy tried to offer his hat, Thomas declined.

“I won’t be gone long,” Thomas said in a forced cheery voice. Andy looked slightly disturbed.

As Thomas and Lady Elizabeth walked across the grassy knoll of Downton Abbey, she dared to take his arm in her own. It was a rather brazen move for a sixteen year old.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Lady Elizabeth said. “But it’s hard to walk on the grass in heels.”

Given that Thomas had never walked on the grass in heels, he couldn’t dispute the issue.

When they reached the coral, Arion was out and about, munching on hay Mr. Colton had lain in a box. Arion had kicked out his play ball, and was nuzzling it with his nose only to nearly trip on it. He’d get mad, kick the ball, then chase the ball, and the game would start all over again.

“Oh, what a beautiful pony!” Lady Elizabeth declared. “Is this Arion?”

“It is,” Thomas said.

“Arion!” Lady Elizabeth called out to him, using her tongue and teeth to urge him closer. “Here beautiful boy!”

Arion looked up and around, disgruntled to be beckoned.

“Arion!” Lady Elizabeth called again. “Here boy!”

Arion shat, as if to voice his displeasure on the subject.

Thomas gestured, whistling softly. Arion nickered, kicking his ball to the side before casually walking up to Thomas with the air of someone who was utterly irritated with the state of affairs.

“Oh here he comes!” Lady Elizabeth was giddy, and reached out with a gloved hand to try and pet Arion’s muzzle. Arion jerked, whinnying sharply, so that Lady Elizabeth quickly shot her hand back in fright.

“Ay!” Thomas warned Arion, using his own hand to pat him fondly on the neck. “Enough. Honestly.”

“He’s very… vocal,” Lady Elizabeth was fluttering with nerves, trying to regain control of the situation.

But Thomas did not want to talk about Arion. He did not want Lady Elizabeth to suffer under delusions that Thomas might one day marry her.

“I know why you’re here,” Thomas said. Lady Elizabeth was taken aback, and looked up at him unsure. For the first time, Thomas could see fear in her eyes.

“...You do?” she asked. Here was the true Lady Elizabeth, the true person behind the mask of societal expectations.

Thomas nodded. “Your mother and father are hoping I’ll court you, right?”

Her cheeks flooded with shame and embarrassment. She looked down at her heels, unsure of what to say.

“It’s alright,” Thomas said. “You can talk to me. I’m not someone you need to fear.”

“W-well-” In her nerves, Lady Elizabeth began to stutter. “M-... M-mama t-told me not to be foolish.”

“You’re not being foolish,” Thomas told her. She might be naive and downright annoying, but she wasn’t foolish. She was doing the only thing she knew in a difficult situation; who else could scorn her or say they’d act differently?

“I’ve never been courted,” Lady Elizabeth admitted. There was such longing in her voice that even Thomas could not deny it. “I so desperately wish to. It’s such a romantic notion, isn’t it? To be loved totally by one person? My mama and papa adore one another. I wish to be married in such a way.”

“I don’t blame you,” Thomas agreed.

“Do you wish to be married?” Lady Elizabeth asked.

Thomas shook his head, “It’s not a matter of wishing, Lady Elizabeth. I can’t be married.”

Crestfallen, Lady Elizabeth began to sag under the heavyweight of disappointment. “But…. why not?” She asked.

Now came the true problem. Thomas could hardly tell the child outright that he was a homosexual. Lady Elizabeth was young and impressionable, not to mention a bit of a gob. She might end up accidentally telling someone and not realizing the implications.

So he tried for a simplified version instead.

“I’m ill,” Thomas explained. Lady Elizabeth’s blue watery eyes widened in obvious shock.

“Ill?” Elizabeth wondered. “But-- does papa know?”

“No,” Thomas said. “It’s a shameful family secret. I only tell you because I don’t want to be unfair on you. You deserve to spend your time with someone who could potentially marry you.”

“But-” At this, Thomas stiffened, for Elizabeth was reaching out to gently touch his lapel. It was a bold and brazen move, completely out of character for what he figured was a shy and demure girl.

“Forgive me,” She flushed, her cheeks a bright pink, “You don’t look ill at all.”

 

And then, all hell broke loose.

  
Without warning, without provocation even, Arion reached out and bit Elizabeth at the elbow. A sharp, ripping of fabric followed suit, with Elizabeth screaming out in fright and falling back into the grass so that her parasol went flying. At first, Thomas was terrified that Arion had actually bit right through Elizabeth’s skin, but the reveal was much less gruesome. He’d bruised her, yes, but he’d not broken the skin. The elbow of her pale pink frock, however, was utterly in tatters. Part of it was still hanging between Arion’s teeth, a sharp reminder of just what he was capable of.

“Christ, Arion!” Thomas howled, angrily. He snatched the fragment of Elizabeth’s dress out of his mouth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

To be fair, the horse looked slightly ashamed.

“Are you hurt-?” Thomas crashed to his knees besides Elizabeth who was now sobbing in the grass. He picked her up into a sitting position, and carefully took her elbow in hand to examine the damage. It was minimal, though Thomas could see two obvious bruising tracks on her arm which must have come from Arion’s enormous front teeth.

“It’s alright!” He assured her, using a voice like he was speaking to George or Sybbie. “No blood, no harm… see?” He even lifted her elbow up to show her; she sniveled wiping her eyes with her free hand. “You’re alright.”

With the knowledge that she’d not been horribly maimed for life, Elizabeth collapsed onto Thomas’ chest crying. Though he did not want to marry her, though she rather annoyed him when he thought about it, Thomas still held her.

“C-can we p-please g-go b-back to the house?” Elizabeth sobbed.

“... Yeah.” Thomas whispered. “Course we can.”

 

~*~

 

 

“You told her what?!”

It was evening, and the Ringwalls had left. Originally, they’d been meant to stay for dinner, to stay for a few days even, but upon Elizabeth being bitten by Arion and Thomas pronouncing to her he was ‘ill’, the Ringwalls had decided to nip home early and nurse their wounds. Now, Thomas was getting his ear bent by Robert, would could not begin to fathom the ludicrousness of it all.

“I told her the truth,” Thomas defended. Next to him on the couch, Mary was nursing her temple where a headache was surely forming.

“But you’re not ill!”

“I’m not normal.”

“I won’t go over this again-”

“I will not court her,” Thomas added, rising up off the couch to begin pacing the room.

“We never asked you too!” Robert cried out, angrily.

“Not out loud,” Thomas scoffed.

“And that beast of a horse biting her-!” At this, Robert was steaming. “He’ll have to go-”

“Absolutely not!” Thomas shrieked, whipping about in a fury. The idea of losing Arion was tantamount to insubordination. How dare his father even insist such a ludicrous idea? “He’s my horse!” Thomas pointed to his chest.

“That I bought!” Robert pointed to his own chest. Now they were nose to nose, shouting at one another.

“And gave to me as a gift! So he’s mine now!” Thomas said, “And besides, Arion didn’t mean to hurt her-”

“He bit her!” Robert slammed his fist down upon the mantel, causing a flower vase atop it to wobble dangerous. “He could have hurt her terribly!”

“The nerve of him-” Thomas scoffed. Honestly, how ridiculous, to be angry at a horse for acting like a horse.

“That’s very typical of you,” Robert said in a scathing voice, glowering at his only son. “We have a serious issue, and you’re being sarcastic.”

Thomas could not help himself.  
He dropped all pretense of anger, and looked at his father with frank, benign eyes. “Alright, da, you’re right.” Thomas said gently. “Let me go talk to Arion. I’ll put him in time out until he straightens up.”

Robert flustered, furious at being sassed. Upon the couch, Cora let out the tiniest moan of exhaustion. Mary, however, seemed to be holding in a laugh. Edith certainly could not find the humor in the subject.

“Thomas…” She said, exhaustedly.

“Do you think you’re amusing?” Robert seethed. For a moment, Thomas wondered if his father might actually attempt to punish him for his behavior. To avoid the gnawing guilt that was now clawing its way up through his stomach, Thomas instead turned the tables back towards his father.

“Do you think I’m stupid?!” Thomas shouted, hoping that if he showed enough rage, Robert would take him seriously. “Do you think I don’t know why Elizabeth was brought here?! Fresh from her mother’s skirts and all doe eyed-!”

“You’re reading too much into this-” Cora tried to say. Robert, however, was starting to look decidingly guilty.

“I asked her flat out if she’d been brought here to court me, and she said yes!” Thomas snapped at his mother. Cora gave him a reproachful look. “That her mother had warned her not to be foolish, and I saw the way they were all looking at me!”

The silence that followed was sickening. Cora looked down into her lap, threading her fingers and remaining stonily quiet in the face of her guilt. Robert, however, was trying for an excuse.

“... She’s a lovely girl,” Robert finally managed to say. It was a miracle the man could still manage to look him in the eye.

“Yes, and I’m sure she’ll find someone equally lovely to marry her,” Thomas replied. He could not keep the iciness out of his voice.

Robert tried for the defense again, “That person could have been you, if you hadn’t lied to her and told her you were ill-!”

“Well what did you want me to say?!” Thomas demanded, throwing his hands up into the air. “That I’m a homosexual?!”

Once again, the silence was back. This time, however, it was full of embarrassment. Though everyone in the family knew that he was a homosexual, it seemed that to say it out loud was a wretched, unfathomable thing. With the truth laying on the mat, and no way to deny it, Robert could no longer bear to look at his son. It burned Thomas deeply, to watch his father turn away.

Outside, crickets were beginning to chirp. By rights, the family ought to be preparing for dinner. Tonight, however, it was obvious that no one would be willing to eat.

“... I’m trying to give you every chance at happiness-” Robert said. He could not bear to look at Thomas and was instead staring at the fireplace.

“I wonder how happy I’d be, married to a woman I could not love,” Thomas sneered. “I ought to ask the Duke of Crowborrow. He seems to be an expert on the subject-”

“He is a weak willed man!” Robert snapped. “You are not!”

“Oh I’m sorry!” Thomas had to raise his voice in order to speak over his father. “I didn’t realize it was strong to force a woman into a woman into a lifetime of misery!”

Robert bristled, still unwilling to look at Thomas.

“Is that what you want for Elizabeth?!” Thomas demanded. “To be chained to a man who cannot love her?! Because I certainly do not! Let her find happiness, I say, and god bless her Christmas carol loving heart!”

But Robert would still not look at him.

“God look at you!” Thomas burst out, emotional at his father’s obvious disapproval. “You can’t even bear to look at me anymore! And you actually pretended to understand!”

He stormed to the door, utterly furious at all of them.  
He did not see the way that Robert winced when he slammed the door.

 

~*~

 

The next day, Thomas left for London without informing the family. Bates was his fail safe, and served as a somber farewell from Downton Abbey.

“When will you be back?” Bates asked, handing Thomas his coat and hat.

“When I feel better,” Thomas mumbled. He wanted to go to the Cavour, to fall into the arms of Louise and whisper every woe into his ear.

“I told Lord Grantham not to do it,” Bates admitted as he walked Thomas to the door. It was early in the morning, with the finest mist creeping across the lawn. At their feet, Tiaa trod along, eager for a walk and a wee. “But he insisted on trying first. He thought maybe there would be a chance.”

“You tell his Lordship from me, that if he even dares to touch Arion while I’m gone that I’ll leave and won’t come back,” Thomas added.

“I shouldn’t imagine anyone could touch Arion without your presence,” Bates said. “Unless they want to get bit.”

He gave Bates a tiny smile, and bid him farewell as he climbed into the backseat of the motorcar.

The train ride to London was remarkably uneventful, save for Thomas ordering a boiled egg and a cup of tea. He tried to read the paper but couldn’t manage to get through a column before falling into a fit of woe. Inside his head, a million problems spiralled and swirled. As the world rushed past in a blur of brown and green, so too did the past few months of Thomas’ life.

It had started off so easy; for a moment, Thomas had imagined that being with a new family (his true family) would mean acceptance and love. Instead, it had just meant more rules. Mary and Edith had been raised to act prim and proper in public, to hide their problems until the doors were closed and the shades were drawn. But Thomas did not possess his sisters’ ability to be silent or still. He couldn’t stand the sorrows of the world, and in particular the sorrows that men like him faced. When Philip had whispered the truths of his marriage, had confided in Thomas of his rape and drugging, Thomas had been filled with rage. But nobody in his family had shared that rage, save for rage at Philip for daring to talk about it. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and instead of helping someone on their knees his family had closed ranks and thrown Philip to the wolves.

Then they’d extended their hand to him, and expected him to take it.  
And had been shocked when he hadn’t.

Upon arriving at Kings Cross Station, Thomas flagged down a black motorcab and took it to Leicester Square. It was relatively uncrowded, with the early hour keeping most men away. But Thomas wasn’t most men, and though it was dangerous to walk about in the daylight he still made his way to the Cavour which he found remarkably vacant. He knocked gently upon the front door though it was wide open, examining the barren restaurant with wonder.

“Hallo?” He called out.

“Eh-?” Without warning, the barman popped his head up from beneath the bar where he’d clearly been restocking beer. He eyed Thomas with wonder. “What are you doing here so early. Bit ballsy don’t you think?”

“I need to talk to Louise,” Thomas explained, fiddling with the handle of his valise embarrassedly. The barman gave him a petulant stare, as if he found Thomas incredibly annoying for interrupting his beer bonanza. Setting an unloaded carton aside, the barman placed his hand on what seemed like a solid piece of wall only to push it back and reveal a secret passageway beyond. It seemed the Cavour had an upstairs of some type.

“Louise!” The barman yowled up the stairs. “Get your cake down here! Someone’s hungry for a bite!”

With this, the barman let the door close again and resumed stocking up his beer.

“... Cake?” Thomas asked, unsure of what to make of the word. The barman didn’t even bother to meet his eyes, now unloading yet another crate of beer.

“Got an arse you could bounce a pence off of,” the barman muttered. While this wasn’t a false statement, it still made Thomas feel slightly uneasy that Louise lived around such sexually provocative people. He had to wonder, was Louise harrassed all day long?

 _No,_ Thomas thought, _Jack wouldn’t allow that._

The door opened again, revealing Louise in nothing more than a faded pink kimono and pajama bottoms. His hair was a tangled mess, and his eyes were barely opened. Clearly he’d just been woken from a nap.

Louise rubbed his face, wiping away dried drool from the corner of his mouth, only to view Thomas clearly.

“Oh-” Louise gave him a tender smile. “Hello, Sailor.”

“I’ve been at sea too long,” Thomas admitted.

“Want to come up and talk about it?” Louise offered.

“Like to do more than talk if you’re up for it,” Thomas said. Louise just chuckled, extending his hand for Thomas to take.

“Come on, Thomas.”

 

The upstairs of the Cavour was vastly different from the bottom floors. Beneath, opulence and cheery colors were key. Upstairs, no effort had been made to make the rooms enjoyable or the amenities clean. A communal kitchen was shared by a mass of ten rooms, with an unnerving silence sweeping the halls. The windows had been boarded up, with the result of the upstairs feeling more like a basement. Thomas noted that Jack was sleeping at the top of the stairs on his own cot, a pistol laying across his chest for easy access. As Louise passed him, he carefully pulled Jack’s covers up and back over his chest.

Thomas could see the affection in his eyes, and it warmed his heart.

Louise’s room was pathetically small, but cramped with an odd variety of books, nicknacks, bizarre paintings, and even a speckled goldfish which swam about a hurricane bowl with a benign expression of boredom upon its face.

“This your room?” Thomas wondered. Louise nodded, closing and locking the door behind them.

As Thomas sat his valise down, Louise dropped his kimono so that quite suddenly he was stark naked with a puddle of clothes at his feet.

“In front of your fish, I ask you,” Thomas tutted.

“He’s seen worse,” Louise declared.  
The fish, to his credit, didn’t even blink.

 

 

It was difficult to say whether their tussle lasted hours or minutes. Sex for Louise was methodical, but Thomas needed comforting and badly. He held tight to Louise, basking in the glorious feeling of a flat chest pressing against his own. Louise was not like Elizabeth. He did not gobble on about Christmas Carols or long for marriage. Instead, he splayed out on his bed like a French whore and whispered filthy words in Thomas’ ear. It was Louise’s silent understanding of clients that they could have whatever they wanted, but Thomas did not want much. He made love to Louise slowly, kissing his neck just below his ear, and watched his face intently for any sign of pain or discomfort. Louise, after years of being a whore, simply closed his eyes and let it happen. He found no release, no joy in their coupling, and when Thomas had found his own zenith Louise merely pulled himself free and cleaned himself off with a wet cloth.

 

It turned out that Louise’s own release came not from orgasm but from opium, and after Thomas had made such tender love to him, he was in the mood to share.

They lay on Louise’s bed, with Louise wrapped about Thomas’ side and Thomas flat on his back. They passed Louise’s jade opium pipe back and forth, the pair of them utterly stoned. The world about them seemed to float… and it was oh so lovely.

Thomas hadn’t felt this at peace in a long time.

But as he opened his mouth to speak of pleasant things, the only things which came out were sorrowful songs. He told Louise of Philip, of his father, and of Elizabeth. Louise listened to everything, and only when Thomas was finished whining did he deign to speak.

“They’ll never understand,” Louise mused. “They’re not meant to. They’re wired differently than us.”

Frankly, Thomas was so wired on opium he thought electricity might shoot out of his fingers.

“You should have seen her,” He slurred. “Sixteen. Hardly a woman at all. Obsessed with Christmas and desperate to be married.”

“Sounds like she’d have given you a cavity.” Louise grinned. “But she’s not your concern. Philip isn’t either, now that I think of it-”

“But it ain’t right-” Thomas mumbled.

“Lots in this world ain’t right,” Louise replied. “Philip’s told me all about his wife. Demons don’t always reign in hell. But we have to keep our cards close to our chest. Philip made a bad move, goin’ to your family. He knew they’d get hot but still he pressed in. He must be close to losing it. Tried to get him to smoke once but he just kept yammering on and on… couldn’t let the high sink in.”

“Tight tick,” Thomas mused.

“You can’t save him, Thomas,” Louise said. “You can only save yourself. That’s what I’ve learned in this business.”

“... Not right,” Thomas whispered.

“Mmm,” Louise burried his face in the crook of Thomas’ neck. “Haven’t seen him here lately… maybe he’s at the Dark Horse.”

“Where?” Thomas wondered.

“Night club for us in York,” Louise yawned, eyes closed. The opium pipe slipped from his fingers, and nearly burned a hole in the mattress until Thomas had the good sense to scoop it up and place it on the bedside table. He wondered if the fish was getting stone too from all the smoke.

“I’ll get you the information,” Louise said. “You might like it but… it’s a bit of a black hole.”

“Sounds my type,” Thomas said.

“It’s not like here,” Louise said. “Men who go there, they don’t come for fish and chips. It’s all action, no talk.” Louise closed his eyes again.

Thomas opened his mouth to say more, but Louise placed his fingertips upon Thomas’ lips to shush him. The pair of them lay in stoned silence for a few minutes more until Louise slowly drifted off to sleep. Thomas did not attempt to wake him.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Thomas returned to Downton Abbey three days later, hungover from opium and in the mood to get out of the city. London was a nightmare when you were stoned. All the noises and the people seemed to swallow you, to make you feel incredibly small. Thomas had spent his days and nights at the Cavour, watching men come and go and wondering at their personal lives. Part of him had hoped to see Philip waltz in, but Philip never came. Maybe Louise was right, and Philip had decided to go to the Dark Horse instead. Maybe he didn’t want to see Thomas again.

Maybe it just hurt too much.

When Thomas returned to Downton Village, he decided it would do him good to walk up from the village on foot. After so many days sucking on an opium pipe, he needed to air out his clothes and his hair. He briefly wondered at the prospects of jumping into the local lake, but decided against it. The sooner he could return home, the sooner he could ask Mrs. Patmore to fix him up something to eat. He was famished, and had a headache forming.

He passed by field after field of farmers reaping their autumn harvest and horses pulling along plows. Now was the time to plant winter gardens before the first frost of the season set and killed all the seedlings. Soon, snow would be covering these lanes, and the temperatures would plunge. Thomas briefly wondered about the prospect of Christmas approaching, and if it might be in his best interests to try and make peace with his father before then. He’d once imagined that his first Christmas with his true family would be gay and full of laughter. Now, he wasn’t sure there would be a ‘merry’ yuletide air.

When Thomas reached the gravel drive of Downton Abbey, his legs were aching. Far in the distance, Arion was running circles around his pen while Mr. Colton put him through his paces. A few of the gardeners were hauling off huge bushels of dried leaves, trying to keep the grounds clear of debris as best they could. They were fighting a losing battle, however, with the entirety of the estate surrounded by massive oak trees and a fierce wind blowing every so often.

At the front door, Tiaa was lolling about on the front steps. Thomas noted that his grandmother’s motorcar was in the drive, and groaned audibly at the prospect of having to deal with her opinions on the matter of Elizabeth. He knocked hard on the front door, and when it opened to reveal Carson Thomas gave the man a bitter smile.

“Home,” Was all Thomas said, stepping inside and removing his coat and hat. Carson, for whatever reason, looking disturbed and remained silent as he took both from Thomas.

“Lord Downton, your presence will be wanted in the library,” Carson murmured. Why did he sound so… somber? Thomas glanced over his shoulder to find the man oddly sorrowful.

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked. “You look… odd.” There wasn’t a more adequate way to put it.

Carson offered his hand so that Thomas might give over his valise.  
“Something has happened,” Was all Carson said. “And… now that you’re home you need to know.”

God only knows what misery had fallen their estate now. Exhausted, Thomas trudged to the library wishing that he could just fall into bed instead of fall into yet another spiral with his family. He could only pray that, whatever had happened did not involve his father’s stomach ulcer. After all the insanities, Thomas didn’t know if his father’s stomach could take much more strain.

He opened the library door, and found a peculiar sight. His entire family, including his grandmother, was clustered about the library hearth as if they were experiencing a terrible chill. They certainly all looked disturbed, with even Robert temporarily lost for words. When he looked over his shoulder to find Thomas in the doorway, he became crestfallen.

“... Home,” Thomas mumbled. Mary looked about, her expression growing pained.

“Thomas,” Mary rose up from the couch, and greeted him to give him a gentle kiss upon the cheek. “Where have you been? Bates said you’d gone to London.”

“I just needed some time alone after Elizabeth,” Thomas explained. “I was… disturbed.”

“Thomas,” The Dowager rose upon shaky limbs, using her silver cane in order to walk faster. She embraced him lightly, and gave him a feathery kiss upon his cheek. “How are you my dear? You look terribly pale.”

“I’m fine, it’s just cold outside,” Thomas said. “I suppose you’ve heard of my failed courtship?”

Instead of rising to the bait, the Dowager patted him tenderly upon the hand. She even guided him to the couch, making him sit next to her.

“Not now, dear. There’s more to discuss than the joys of Elizabeth Ringwall, although I’m sure she has many charms.”

“Plenty if you’re fond of Christmas,” Thomas said.

Silence met his words. Robert was still staring at him with a queer, somber expression that he did not like. On the opposite couch between Edith and Tom, Cora looked terribly worried.

“... Why is everyone so quiet?” Thomas asked. “What’s wrong with all of you? What’s happened?”

Robert rubbed at his brow, clearly deciding on the spot how best to handle the task of telling Thomas their new misfortune. “Let me speak with Thomas alone.”

“Are you sure?” Cora asked.

“I’m sure,” Robert replied.

Cora sighed, rising up and taking Edith by the hand. “Let’s go walk to the greenhouse. Our white roses should still be in bloom.”

Tom and Mary followed, leaving only the Dowager behind who glared petulantly at Robert as if to say _‘I dare you to force me off this couch’._

Clearly Robert didn’t have the stones to take on that particular battle.

When the library door closed, Thomas spoke more frankly and with full force. “Let’s have it out then,” He demanded. “What’s gone wrong? Is there another war on, and no one’s told me? I didn’t see anything in the London papers yesterday.”

“What about today?” Robert asked.

“Didn’t get the news yet,” Thomas said. “Came straight home. Had a headache.” At this, he rubbed his brow.

Robert swallowed, taking a moment to consider how best to approach the subject at hand.

“Thomas,” The Dowager placed her hand upon his own, speaking softly to him with all the care that she could muster. Given her vicious nature, it was surprisingly a lot. “Something unfortunate has occurred.”

“What is it?” Thomas asked.

Robert leaned against the hearth, staring down into the flames. Thomas noted a newspaper was burning there.

“... Philip Prevette was having dinner with his wife last night at the Crowborrow Estate,” Robert said. He spoke with utmost care, his eyes locked on Thomas’ own. “He had a few old friends over for dinner; her friends, as I understand.”

Thomas waited in silence; for some reason, his heart was beginning to pound in his chest. Had his wife revealed their secret? Were they all about to be thrown to the dogs?

“... He stood up, proclaimed he was free, and drew a pistol from his coat pocket.” Robert said.

 

Thomas stared.

“He put it in his mouth,” Robert finished.

 

 

 

It could not be.

  
It simply could not be.

 

 

Thomas slowly rose from the couch, his cold hand slipping from his grandmother’s.

He stared for a moment at the floor, trying to comprehend what his father had just said.

“...W... “ But Thomas was having trouble speaking. When he looked up at Robert again, there were tears glistening in his eyes. “What?” He croaked. His voice was pathetically small, like that of a childs.

Robert turned, trying for softest sympathy as he raised up to put a hand tenderly upon Thomas’ shoulder. “It was in the papers this morning,” Robert explained. “We thought you might already know but… we didn’t know where to ring to find you.”

Thomas pulled back, so that Robert’s hand fell back down to his side.

“What?” Thomas whispered, shaking his head. “Put a… what?”  
He looked to his grandmother instead. She too rose up from the couch, walking on trembling limbs as she braced him by the back.

“It is a tragedy,” she said, and when she spoke it was with clear sincerity, “No one will deny it. But it is vital, now more than ever, that you remain calm and allow your father to speak to the press if they come calling. This is a terrible, terrible, thing… but you could still be in danger-”

He pulled back from her hands as well.  
Danger-- what was danger? What did the word ‘danger’ mean?

“He begged,” Thomas looked to his father, unable to deny the wretched howling beast within him. “He told you and he begged and you… scraped him off-”

“I had to do what was best for my family at the time,” Robert said. “He needed help, professional help, and you are not a professional-”

“He told you,” Thomas croaked. “He told you and you said he was a liar. To his face.”

Robert sighed, pursing his lips for a moment before saying. “I did, and I believed he was lying at the time. I’m still not sure he was telling the full truth-”

“My god,” Thomas warbled. In his shame, in his terrible swarming shame, tears began to slip down his cheeks. “You won’t even grant him that dignity in death. You won’t even admit he might have been telling the truth.”

“There are many truths in a marriage, Thomas,” Robert said. “And we will never know the full story of his. Whatever happened, good or bad… he cannot tell us now-”

“He told me,” Thomas whispered. He clutched at his throat, which seemed disturbingly tight. How was he gaining breath. “He told me... “

Once again, the Dowager carefully walked forward to place her hand upon his arm.  
“We will mourn him with the dignity that he deserves,” She murmured. “And we will pray that he has found the peace he so desperately wanted in life. But that is all we can do, Thomas. We have to stay strong as a family and hold together until this storm has past.”

But the storm had swallowed Philip whole. Had dragged him off the deck of the only lifeboat he could find to fling him hard into the gale. Thomas felt as if he were now tethered to the mast, watching Philip drown in a roaring black ocean which offered no kindness. No pity.

“What do you need?” Robert asked. “Tell me, so that I may give it to you.”

Thomas’ eyes were swollen and wet. The fireplace crackled, newspaper slowly turning to from ink to ash.

He staggered away from his grandmother and father, slowly heading towards the library door. He tried to think of something to say which might sum up the terrible woe inside of him.

The guilt.  
The shame.  
The pain.  
The loss.

But there was nothing which would adequately suffice.  
He left, silently closing the library door behind him. Only when the wood was pressed to his back and he was alone in the entrance hall did he truly begin to weep.

And even then, he was silent.

 

~*~

 

 

That night, dinner was a quiet affair, and one devoid of Thomas. He’d gone up to his room and hadn’t come down, refusing knocks and meals to instead sleep in silence. The atmosphere about the Crawley dining room was one akin to a funeral, and when all was said and done they each retired to the parlor where they sat quietly in their respective chairs sipping on wine. It really was a shame that such a wretched evening should fall when Mrs. Patmore had made lemon crumble, one of Robert’s favorite meals. As it stood, Robert did not much feel like enjoying anything.

Next to him, his mother was the one to offer advice in this difficult hour. Even Cora and Mary did not know what to say.

“It is terrible,” his mother murmured. “But we must protect Thomas. He is the one in danger now.”

“I just can’t imagine,” Cora whispered. “How will any of them ever overcome it? To have someone… shoot themselves right in front of you.”

“I should imagine they’re all scarred for life,” Mary said.

“Well they ought to be,” Tom muttered. “If that wife of his is anything like Thomas said… she probably won’t mourn the Duke a pence.”

“Tom,” Cora said reproachfully.

“That’s not true,” Edith piped up. “We don’t know the terms of their marriage.”

“But we do know Thomas’ terms,” Robert spoke up. Silence fell as his family turned to speak to him.

It had been wretched, utterly wretched, to watch his son cry. The shame within Thomas, the pain and the empathy had been so true and so pure that Robert himself had been momentarily drawn to tears. He could only pray that his relationship with his son survived this horrific time.

It seemed like an age ago that Thomas had lain his head upon Robert’s lap. That he had clung to his housecoat and allowed Robert to pet his hair like he were a child. When had it all gone wrong?

Philip. Philip was when it all went wrong.

“... I do not regret sending Philip away, not when he needed help.” Robert said. “ I could not help Philip; he was not my son, and he did not respect me as his equal.”

“He might have listened to Thomas,” Mary spoke up.

“Maybe,” Robert mused. “But I suppose we will never know now.”

 

The door opened to reveal Carson, who looked most troubled.

“Carson, has Thomas eaten yet?” Robert asked.

“He needs to before he goes to sleep,” Cora added. “I’m tempted to go up and talk to him-”

“He won’t open the door,” Mary warned.

“I’m afraid Lord Downton has left, M’lady,” Carson explained.

“Left?” Cora asked. “At this hour? For where?”

Robert’s heart sank at Carson’s answer. “He did not say, M’lady. But he took a valise and the chauffeur to the station. He said he needed time.”

“Then we shall give it to him,” The Dowager decided. “Let him mourn on his own. We will grant him that. When he returns, we’ll speak to him as a family, and try to move on as a unit.”

“I’ll head up to London tomorrow,” Edith offered. “I have to check on the magazine anyway, and I can look in on the club and see if he’s there.”

But Robert knew he wouldn’t be. His son had returned today smelling of opium and looking like he’d been drug from a gutter. Wherever he went now, it would surely either be to the same place, or somewhere worse.

 

Thomas' voice, so full of pain, was ringing in his ears. "God _look at you! You can’t even bear to look at me anymore! And you actually pretended to understand!"_

 

Terrible fear gnawed at Robert’s stomach.  
He could not bear to lose his son again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings include **Arion biting someone, drug usage (opium), and suicide by gunshot**


	7. Gabriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' descent into drug addiction is swift and deadly, leaving Robert Crawley no choice but to seek the help of an outsider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This post is slightly earlier than normal, simply because this weekend is Easter and while I am not religious my mother has requested both me and my partner come home so that we enjoy family festivities. As such, I'm going to be a little busy so I figured best get this posted. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter include **drug use, drug addiction, unwanted sexual contact, and near drug overdose**. If any of these things upset or trigger you, please be aware of their presence in this chapter.

Detective Samuel Shepherd looked nothing like Robert Crawley would have suspected.

The hour was late, rightly too late for a traveler to come to the door, but these were desperate times and Robert was willing to make exceptions. The snows of winter had begun to fall, coating the land in white, but the imprints of Arion’s hooves could not be seen treking around the glen. There was no sarcastic quibble in the dining hall, no spirited games with the children being had. There was instead only an ominous silence which soaked into every wall it touched, reminding Robert forcibly every hour of every day that his son was gone.

That he’d been gone for over a month.

The funeral for Philip Prevette had been unnervingly stiff, with the Duchess of Crowborrow not even bothering to pull their son out of Harrow in order for him to attend his father’s funeral. Robert Crawley had watched from near the back row with Cora upon his arm, eyes locked upon the Duchess as she chatted with a few friends and drink a glass of mulled wine. She’d not even attempted to look normal; she did not appear to be a widow of a suicidal man. Instead, she seemed almost relieved that the Duke was gone, and it made Robert feel sick to his stomach.

Thomas had warned him, begged him, but he had not listened… and now Philip Prevette was dead.

But in truth, Robert could not expend his energy towards a man now dead. All his fear, all his concern lay squarely upon the shoulders of his missing son. Robert had prayed that he might find Thomas at the Duke’s funeral, but Thomas had not been there. It was like the universe was playing a sick game with him, throwing out teasing questions such as: _“What will you do now? Where will you look now? Who will you ask now?”_

But in lieu of Thomas’ physical presence, there had been whispers. Terrible whispers on the fringes of their stoic society which had sent his blood cold. Their family was not the only one with an inverted son. Robert had been to a late season hunting party, and as he’d dined upon cold meats with his fellows he’d seen two young men near the far end of the table bow their heads together and whisper while pointedly looking at him.

He’d heard just the tinges of their conversation: _“That’s his father. Makes you wonder doesn’t it?”_

_“Does he know?”_

_“Doubt it. Maybe we ought to tell him so he can do something about it.”_

The pair had tutted, looking both disapproving and sympathetic.

In an act of desperation, with Cora begging for answers and Mary fearing the worst, Robert had gone to London with only Bates for company. He’d searched the club, Leicester Square, and had even dared to send Bates to the Cavour. Unfortunately, Bates hadn’t even gotten past the front door. They had been greeted by a man with skin as black as coal, his eyes blazing and his fists wrapped about Bates’ collar as he threw him backward into the streets.

 _“He isn’t here,”_ the whore named Louise had said. He’d stood at the man’s side, like some strange form of a girl loving her beau. Robert had been unable to help wondering if they were in fact lovers. Louise had been smoking an opium pipe, utterly toasted with drugs.

 _“Where is he?”_ Bates had asked.

 _“Why don’t you go find out yourself?”_ Louise had taunted while the black man had closed the door. The pair of them had been left shivering in the alley, fearing the worst for their missing number.

So Robert had done what any concerned parent would rightfully do. He’d gone to Murray and hired a detective, but had requested a very specific type of man to take on the case.

 _“Find me a homosexual,”_ Robert had asked Murray. _“Someone we can trust going into dark corners and seeing dark deeds. Thomas’ life depends upon it.”_

For a day or so, Robert had feared that even Murray would come up short. Then, Robert had received word a Detective Samuel Shepherd was coming to visit, and would be arriving on the night train so as not to draw suspicion.

Now, it was close to ten, with the girls upstairs preparing their toilette for bed and the servants taking their dinner downstairs. Only Carson had remained upstairs, determined to meet Detective Shepherd personally. When the front door bell had been rung at 10:38, Carson had gone to fetch it and Robert had waited impatiently in the study.

In his mind, all he could see was that odd little whore on the steps of the Cavour, smoking his opium pipe. He’d known where Thomas was… why hadn’t he said?

Because he doesn’t trust you, whispered a nasty little voice in Robert’s head. And why should he after you snuck in like a rat?

When the door to the library opened, it revealed Carson standing next to a man who was surely Detective Samuel Shepherd… and he looked nothing like Robert would have expected.

“Detective Samuel Shepherd, M’lord,” Carson introduced, allowing the man into the room. Samuel Shepherd was tall and well built, with a handsome jawline and coiffed dark hair. He seemed, in Robert’s eyes, to be similar to Thomas if Thomas was only a little kinder, a little more masculine. One thing was for certain, he did not look like a homosexual; at least, he did not appear to be a different sort of man. There was nothing overtly feminine about him. Nothing which suggested he was different.

“Ah, thank you Carson,” Robert stepped forward, and shook Detective Shepherd’s hand politely. His grip was strong and firm.

For one moment, Robert feared that Murray might have fetched him the wrong sort of man.

“Detective Shepherd, thank you for coming so late,” Robert said.

“I’m happy to be here,” Detective Shepherd said. “Shall we discuss things in your office?”

“Carson, we may need you but I’m eager for you to sup with your fellows,” Robert said.

“It is no bother, M’lord,” Carson assured him. “I shall wait until Detective Shepherd’s business is concluded.”

Robert’s office was a small room right off the northwest corner of the library, and while rather cramped it would offer them the privacy they desired. “Please,” Robert led the way, opening the door so that Detective Shepherd could enter first. The office walls were made up of bookshelves, and as a result you felt like you were hiding in the corner of an ancient library.

“Have a seat,” Robert sat down behind his clawed desk, “Would you care for tea?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Detective Shepherd took the seat opposite Robert, which was less a visitor’s chair and more of a red leather armchair in the direction of the desk. “I’m chilled to the bone.”

“Enjoy the fire,” Robert advised, for his office offered a small if cheery hearth. “Was it a rough ride?”

“I’ve known worse,” Detective Shepherd jaunted an ankle over the opposite knee while Robert rang for tea. After a beat of tense silence, a humble sort of quiet took over their conversation. Suddenly their words were much more hushed, much more tense.

“How did you find me?” Detective Shepherd asked.

“I did a bit of digging, or rather my personal solicitor did,” Robert explained. “I looked into detectives who were certain types of men. You were the perfect match, or so he claimed.”

 

“So you’re aware of what I am,” Detective Shepherd seemed mildly impressed.

“It’s precisely why I called you here,” Robert said. Shepherd made a tiny face as if amused, but quickly erased it so as not to be rude.

“Alright,” Detective Shepherd grew more at ease, his posture relaxing and his hands drumming upon the arm rests. “Just so we’re clear, I won’t do police work. If you’re hoping to have someone like me arrested-”

“God no,” Robert shuddered at the mere notion. “I can’t imagine trapping a man in such a way. It’s my son you’re here for. I need to find him.”

Detective Shepherd quirked an eyebrow. Yet before Robert could go on to explain, the door to the library opened to reveal Carson.

“M’lord?” Carson had deep bags beneath his aged eyes. He needed to sleep more.

“We’ll take tea, Carson,” Robert said.

“Certainly, M’lord,” Carson left, closing the door behind him.

Detective Shepherd silently gestured for Robert to continue on, and took a spiral notepad out of his pocket to begin writing in it with an inkpad.

“Name?” He asked.

“Thomas,” Robert said. “Thomas Crawley.”

“Tell me about him,” Detective Shepherd said. “What’s he like? Why are you looking for him?”

It hurt to admit his flaws, to speak to a man who was practically a stranger about things that were so sordid and bleak. “My son is like you,” Robert explained. “And he’s… spiraling. I’ve heard rumors. Terrible rumors. Of him sleeping with all sorts of men. Of him being seen in dark spots in York and London. I can’t catch him, he’s far too cunning.”

“They usually have to be,” Detective Shepherd said, consolingly.

“I need your help finding him and bringing him home,” Robert said. “I want to help him.”

“You’re not thinking of something like conversion therapy, are you?” Detective Shepherd asked. A wariness flashed through his eyes, full of mistrust.

“No!” Robert flustered. How utterly awful-! “No, I don’t want to do anything like that. I just… Something’s wrong with him, Detective. Something's terribly wrong.”

Robert paused, glum at the memory of his son’s anguish. Detective Shepherd watched him, all the while perhaps calculating what Robert’s motives were.

“It’s like he’s masochistic.” Robert mused, “Like he can’t allow himself to be happy…. He was recently involved with a member of the gentry, a Duke, but was caught. There were rumors of the wife being wretched; even I could see the man needed help. The next week the Duke committed suicide. It was all over the papers, a wretched nasty business. After that, Thomas wasn’t the same.”

Detective Shepherd paused in writing, glancing up at Robert amazed. “Thomas was involved with Philip Prevette?”

“You know of him?” Robert asked, amazed.

“Everyone knew of him, at least in our world,” Detective Shepherd scoffed. “His wife was a demon from hell. She used drugs to rape him. We all felt damn sorry for him, I can tell you.” At this, Detective Shepherd closed his notepad, putting it back in his pocket. “So what are you thinking for Thomas?” He asked. “Something like Rustington?”

“Something like that, yes,” Robert said.

“I have good friends there,” Detective Shepherd said. “It’s a nice place, and it could help Thomas get better if he’s willing, but first we need to catch him.”

The door to the library opened to reveal Carson bearing a guilded tea tray complete with biscuits. He set it down upon a side table, and poured two steaming cups for Detective Shepherd and Robert respectively.

“Can you help me?” Robert asked, accepting his tea from Carson. “Can you save my son?”

“Can, and will,” Detective Shepherd took his tea to stir in some milk. “But first… tea.”

He toasted Robert silently, and began to drink.

 

 

~*~

 

  
_No pain._

_No worry._

_No anxiety._

_No fear._

_No anything, really._

_There was something utterly beautiful, something undeniably peaceful, about the effects of opium. Thomas lay upon a warm and comfortable bed, resting quietly while the world around him ceased to exist. There were others close by or so he assumed. Sometimes shadows would dance across the film of his vision. Muted voices fell into a warm rhythmic beat, neither making sense nor causing agitation. Everything was easy. Everything was fine._

_He couldn’t really say how long he’d been down here, or where exactly he was. But in that moment, utterly toasted on opium, Thomas did not feel concerned enough to care. Life and death felt detached from his existence now, like he was floating within an entirely different solar system where only rest and relaxation could occur. Somewhere near his hand (which seemed miles away from his face) lay an opium pipe which he’d bought off a Chinese merchant. He wanted to smoke some more of it, but that would require moving._

_Frankly, it seemed far too much trouble to be going on with._

_A gentle hand caressed his side, rousing him back to consciousness. Thomas’ eyes slowly opened, seeming to take years to function properly, and showed him the image of a world blurred by sweet darkness. He was laying upon the floor, and as such when he looked up all he could see was a dungeon ceiling. Far off golden lights cast an ethereal halo around a man who was looking down upon him._

 

Samuel Shepherd had seen many pathetic creatures in his life, but none more so that the young man before him.

He’d seen pictures of Thomas Crawley, a young man with rather feminine features and sulky beautiful blue eyes. The creature before him, however, was utterly wasted. Laying in filth upon a rotting mattress, Thomas Crawley wore nothing save for a pair of socks that had lost their garters. He was covered in bodily fluids, and the worst part was Samuel was convinced they weren’t Thomas’ own. If he’d been raped or if he actually wanted the sex, Samuel couldn’t say. He could only think of Thomas’ desperate family, and how terrified they’d be to find him so utterly wasted.

 

_“Angel…” Thomas slurred, wondering at his good fortune. The angel’s face slowly loomed into view to reveal a handsome man. He looked worried._

 

Samuel had never been called an angel before, and frankly didn’t quite know how to take it. Instead, he just stated the obvious.

 

_“Found you,” The angel declared._

_Thomas tried to laugh, but the sound got caught in his throat. Every breath was achingly slow; he wondered if he even had a pulse anymore._

 

Thomas was barely breathing; his skin was pale and sparkling with cold sweat. Unsure of what else to do, Samuel crouched down to touch at Thomas’ pulse. It was dangerously slow.

 

_“Do you know where you are?” the angel asked._

_“Hi” Thomas replied. What a lovely thing, to be talking to an angel. Who would ever believe him._

_The angel just smiled. “You’re completely lost on the sauce, aren’t you,” the angel said._   
_How very smart the angel was._

_Thomas tried to laugh again, but once more had a hard time getting the sound out._

 

So long as Samuel could keep Thomas talking, he felt certain that Thomas would survive. He was roasted on opium, that much was certain, but he wasn’t overdosing… not yet. Clearly Thomas was still lucid enough to understand when he needed to stop. The question was, how long would his sanity hold out? The more drugs he took, the more likely was to overdose.

 

_“Gabriel?” Thomas asked._

_The angel just smiled. “Not quite.” He sat down next to Thomas, his halo diminishing slightly in the darkness. “Relax now, I’m here.”_

_Thomas went back to sleep with his head on the angel’s lap._   
_What an utterly wonderful world it was, that such beautiful things could exist._

 

With Thomas’ head upon his lap, Samuel carefully considered his options. He need to act, and quickly, to save his charge. The first thing to do, however, was get back in contact with Lord Grantham and inform him of all that had occurred. He would be the one, ultimately, to decide what to do.

Thomas let out the tiniest whimper, more of a breath than anything. After being declared the Archangel Gabriel, Samuel felt oddly protective of his charge.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Detective Shepherd’s words felt like a metal fist punching Robert repeatedly in the stomach. He stood clutching Cora’s shoulders as she sat upon the couch, the pair of them horrified to learn the truth of their only son. Next to Cora upon the couch, Mary and Tom sat supporting them.

No one dared speak for a moment, each of them too busy swallowing their horror to know what to say.

Before them, Detective Shepherd had the decency to not look apathetic.

“Are you certain?” Robert whispered. He did not want to believe it.

“I watched him laying there, high out of his mind, thinking I was the archangel Gabriel,” Detective Shepherd said. “I’m pretty certain who got him hooked too. There’s a prostitute at the Cavour, which is another den for men like us-”

“Louise,” Robert seethed through gritted teeth. The memory of that opium pipe burned him now. How he wished he could strangle that little chit!

“You know Louise?” Detective Shepherd wondered.

Robert was too angry to speak; he looked away, rubbing a hand over his mouth to hide his vicious words.

“Well, in any event,” Detective Shepherd carried on. “He probably got Thomas to try it, and now Thomas is addicted to opium. Which explains quite a lot, because he’s being affected by analgesia-”

“What?” Robert asked. On the couch, Cora was too busy whimpering into her hands to ask questions. The idea of her son being addicted to drugs was too crushing to comprehend.

“Analgesia,” Detective Shepherd repeated. “It’s an inability to feel pain. That’s how he’s enduring what’s happening at the Dark Horse. So all I have to do now is tempt him into a trap and catch him… and I’ve got the bait.” At this, Detective Shepherd reached into this jacket pocket to withdraw a silver cigarette case. He opened it to reveal, instead of cigarettes, a sticky, raw, dark brown substance that looked rather like molasses. It had stained the inside of the cigarette case, forever ruining the once fashionable device.

“Behold… Chinese Molasses. Midnight Oil. The most dangerous train you can ever ride.” Detective Shepherd waxed poetics, turning the cigarette case about so that he could observe the tar himself. Upon the couch, Cora looked ready to be sick.

“You’re going to give him drugs?!” She cried out, horrified.

Detective Shepherd just gently waved her off. “I’m I’m going to trap him with the idea. He’ll never actually get the drugs. This kind of opium, raw? It’d kill him.” He scoffed at this.

On the couch, however, Cora looked ready to faint. Slowly, she turned to look up at Robert with tears in her eyes.

“...Our baby,” She croaked. “Our little James.”

“M’lady, may I be frank?” Detective Shepherd spoke to her directly now, seeming to sense that she needed the most convincing. “He’s taking higher and higher doses. Either we do this now, or we find him dead in an ally.”

But Cora could not bear it. So deep was her love for her children that the idea of losing Thomas again seemed to destroy her completely. She wept openly into her hands while Mary held her to her side. So it was left to Robert to make the decision, and he did so with a somber air.

“... Do what you must,” Robert said.

Detective Shepherd pocketed his wicked cigarette case, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his fingers in case of residue. “I’ll do it tomorrow night,” that would mean Friday. “Make your preparations. I’ll have him here by midnight.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Robert said. Without another word, Detective Shepherd went. Where he went, Robert could not say. Part of him was nervous to find out.

In their newfound solitude, the Crawley family sheltered around one another for protection. Mary bowed her head as Tom took her hand upon her lap.

“How could this have happened?” Mary asked him. “Drugs… of all things, drugs.”

“It’s that damned whore,” Robert cursed, his heart still bleeding with pain at the memory of Louise barring the door to the Cavour with a lit opium pipe. One phone call… just one phone call. “I ought to see him arrested-”

“No!”

Robert had not expected Mary to take such offense. She leapt off the couch, furious at Robert’s suggestion. Robert was taken aback; why was she so angry?

“Don’t you see?!” Mary demanded of her father, “That’s the whole point! He doesn’t think he can trust us. After all the horribleness of Philip Prevette-”

“Let’s not rake that over again,” Robert said. This only seemed to make Mary madder.

“But don’t you see?! Everything was fine until the Duke. He saw the way that we shoved the Duke off, and then that wretched wife, and the suicide. He must think-”

But Tom cut her off, speaking firmly so that Mary was forced to listen. “Mary, he’s been difficult even when he was still downstairs. He needs help. Emotional help. He always did and you know that.”

Mary slowly sat back down on the couch. It seemed that she could not refute Tom’s sagely advice.

“Thomas was a tyrant downstairs,” Tom told them all. “He was a bully. He lied, he stole, he made misery for the sake of it. You can blame the Barrows, you can blame the Carneys, but the only difference between Thomas then and Thomas now, is that he’s got money and freedom. He never learned self-care, or self-control, now he’s exploding all over the place.” Tom paused, slightly guilty for his stiff words. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have a good side, but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen it.”

“Well I’ve seen it,” Mary whispered. Tom looked ashamed for a moment. “You’ve always held an ungenerous view of my twin.”

“I’m trying not to, for your sake,” Tom said.

“... Does my sake matter so much?” Mary asked.

“To me?” Tom paused, “Yes, it does.”

Robert had to wonder at the strange expression which flickered across Mary’s beautiful face. Part of him could not help but question if there was more to Tom’s words than met the eye.

“Tom, I’m frightened for him,” Mary spoke up. She looked to the man plaintively, practically on the verge of begging.

“I know you are,” Tom said.

“Won’t you at least try to help him?” Mary asked. “For my sake if nothing else?”

“But that’s just it, Mary,” Tom explained. “I can’t help him. None of us can.”

“Tom’s right,” Robert strode to his writing desk in the corner, atop which a telephone sat. “Professionals are what we need.”

If they had twenty four hours to work with, then Robert would do what he could to make preparations for his son. He would save him, he would help him, in the only way that he could now. He would deliver Thomas into the hands of professionals, of doctors, who would be able to help him make sense of the world again.

“What are you doing?” Cora croaked from the couch.

“I’m calling Rustington,” Robert replied.  
No one made to refute him.

 

~*~

 

_No pain._

_No worry._

_No anxiety._

_No fear._

_Something odd was going on though, but Thomas couldn’t be made to care about it much. It felt like he was enduring some sort of earthquake, with a heaviness weighing him down upon the front and lifting him up from behind. He was being tugged in certain directions, his head at an awkward angle, but everytime he opened his eyes to try and figure out what was going on, all he could see was the stone ceiling overhead._

_He could hear panting in his ears, the wheezing of another man._

_He blinked, and the man was gone. Once again, Thomas felt weightless, laying upon the stone floor with something wet and sticky between his thighs._

_There were other shadows, other shapes. Thomas could make out the form of Philip Prevette, watching everything with a most somber gaze._

_“I never wanted this for you,” Philip told him. “If I were alive, I wouldn’t have let you come here.”_

 

 

The smell of sex was heavy in the air, and it made Samuel nauseas. Wary of being approached, he kept a firm hand on a pistol which he carried in his pocket. He could hear moaning and screaming somewhere down the hall, but he wasn’t interested on getting a look in. He went down to the very bottom of the Dark Horse, where ancient tunnels once carved to escape Romans now served as basement rooms for drug addicts.

Disturbingly, Samuel found Thomas in the very same room where he’d left him, but much had changed. The mattress that Thomas had once lain upon was gone, and instead had been drug into the corner to be shared by four other men who were naked and asleep. It was obvious that they’d had sex, but Thomas was not with the others, so had it been consensual or no? Instead, Thomas was laying on his side, his opium pipe feet away from him and still smoking. He was pale and still, covered with semen and utterly filthy.

 

 

_Above him was a dark shape outlined in gold. Thomas smiled, woozy but glad that the angel Gabriel had returned to him again._

_“Hi,” Thomas croaked. Why was his voice so raw? He sounded like a bullfrog; that was very silly wasn’t it. Maybe the angel had turned him into a bullfrog._

_“Ribbit,” Thomas said. He giggled, or at least tried to._

_“Can you hear me?” Gabriel’s voice seemed rather far away._

_Thomas could not find the strength to reply. He was much too content to merely stare at the angel. How very beautiful it was. In the angel’s shadow, Thomas could see images of his departed sister Sybil._

_She was trying to stay something to him but he couldn’t understand her._

 

 

“Jesus fucking christ,” Samuel whispered under his breath. Thomas was barely breathing, his lips starting to turn a dangerous cool shade. Initially, Samuel had been prepared to tempt Thomas with opium and walk him out. Now, however, Samuel knew that the time for light footing was up. Thomas was close to overdosing, and needed a doctor immediately. Samuel shrugged off his trenchcoat, pulling out his pistol from his pocket to stick it in the waistband of his trousers. He bent over to wrap Thomas up, pausing as he registered just how cold the young man was.

“Fuck,” Samuel whispered.

 

_But there was movement and sound. The angel was lifting him up, so that Thomas was seemingly floating on air. He wrapped Thomas in a beautiful white cloth, coating him in serene light so that Thomas thought he might actually be traveling to heaven._

 

“Okay, okay-” Samuel spoke more to himself than anyone else. Thomas was heavy, but not unmanageably so. The problem was, he couldn’t rightly pull out his pistol and hold Thomas with both hands at the same time. To remedy this problem, Samuel instead held Thomas tight to his side. This would force the man to walk, hopefully stimulating blood flow and getting his pulse up. This, of course, hinged on Thomas’ ability to actually walk. In actuality, Samuel was probably going to be dragging Thomas the whole way back to the motorcar which was waiting on the streets upstairs.

A dark shadow lunged out from the door; Samuel’s heart skipped a beat, and he immediately pulled his pistol out of his waistband with his free hand.

_“Oi what are you doing?”_   
_“Back the fuck off-”_

 

_Thomas watched passively as a man barred the way to heaven. He was naked and dirty, like some sort of ape god. Gabriel was pointing a gun at him; what a very strange thing for an angel to do. Who knew that the Lord’s most trusted voices were packing heat?_

 

 

They were at impasse, with Samuel pointing the gun at the man’s head, and the man blocking the door. The man was filthy, utterly dazed by drugs, and close to foaming with rage.

_“You can’t just take him, I wasn’t finished yet-”_   
_“Can and will,” Gabriel warned. “Now back off, or I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”_

 

 

So it seemed that this man had had his way with Thomas. It was enough to make Samuel’s brain boil.

He pulled back the safety on the trigger, just for emphasis.

 

_The ape god struggled for words, but eventually slinked off back into the shadows._

_Gabriel put his gun back up. He bent down and picked Thomas up again, cradling him against his broad muscular chest._

_“Ape…” Thomas wondered._

_“Something like that,” Gabriel agreed. “But you’re safe now. He won’t touch you again.”_

 

 

“Come on now, try to walk,” Samuel urged. He was practically dragging Thomas up the stairs, and grunted from the effort. Thomas was sagging against his chest, his breathes becoming quieter. It seemed that standing up, and trying to walk had jarred Thomas’ fragile body.

He sagged backward, his head falling slack on his shoulders.  
He wasn’t breathing.

“Ey- hey!” Samuel shouted in Thomas’ ear, slapping Thomas across the face with his free hand. “Don’t you die on me! You hold on, Thomas!”

Thomas did not reply.

 

 

_He was being carried up into the light, the wind rushing past his ears. It was a strange melodic beat, and it drug Thomas down into a warm, wet darkness where he stayed._

 

 

“Fuck-- godamnit-!” Samuel seethed. He gave up all pretense of being able to use his pistol, instead picking Thomas up with both hands. He began to trot, running as fast as he possibly could up the ancient stone steps of the Dark Horse. He was garnering quite a lot of attention, with young men in slightly better states pausing in the doors of their private rooms to watch them pass.

Time had officially run out.

With his heart pounding in his ears, Samuel reached the top floor (ground floor, rather) of The Dark Horse, breaking through the lobby where a few men were merely sitting and reading, he caused a bit of a commotion as he ran for the door.

“Move-!” Samuel barked, “Get out of the way-!”

The men obliged, crying out in shock at the sight of Thomas. Emerging back on the streets of York, the air felt sweet and crisp compared to the stale stink of the basement of the Dark Horse. Samuel’s car wasn’t too far off, merely parked in the corner of the ally way which held company with a rug company and a small if vacant tea shop.

Reaching the car, Samuel had to drop Thomas with one hand in order to open the motorcar door; he all but chucked Thomas into the backseat to get to driving quicker.

“Just hang on, Thomas-!” Samuel shouted, wrenching open the driver’s side door and jamming his key in the engine. It would take an hour to get back to Downton. That was time that Thomas did not have.

There was nothing for it, Samuel would have to take him to York County Hospital and call the family as soon as he could.

He tore out of the alleyway, slamming his foot on the gas pedal in an effort to get to his destination sooner.

In the backseat, Thomas’ lips were turning blue.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The halls of York County Hospital were already slightly crowded nurses bringing medicine to patients and family members making their way home for the night now that visiting hours were over; against the grain, however, five people running as fast as they could for the doors of A wing.

The Crawleys were petrified, having been called by a frantic Samuel Shepherd from the hospital to inform them that Thomas had suffered from an overdose and was doing poorly. The original plan had been for Samuel to drive Thomas home, and then for the family to decide what to do. Now, however, all responsibility for Thomas’ welfare had been jerked from his parent’s hands. Robert, Cora, Mary, Edith, and Tom all drove together to York, with Cora petrified and Robert an ashen gray. As soon as the motorcar had pulled up on the street, Cora had forced herself out the door before the car could come to a complete stop, and had run up the front steps of the county hospital. Robert had followed after her, and now all five of them were trying to keep up as she made a beeline for the A wing where Thomas being kept.

As they burst through the double doors into the wing, they were greeted by the sight of several harassed nurses who did not appreciate their meddling.

“Excuse me!” One nurse in particular, who was clearly a head matron, walked up and stopped them mid-run. “This is a hospital, not a playground, I must ask you to stop this nonsense at once-”

“Thomas Crawley-!” Robert gasped for air; he’d not run so fast in quite a while. “Where is he?!”

“My son-!” Cora babbled. “Where is my son!?”

“I must ask you to control yourselves,” the matron tried to say, “Patients are resting and recovering from surgery-”

“My son!” Cora shrieked the word, furious at being brushed off so easily. Before the matron could retaliate, however, a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

“I demand you tell us where he is!” Robert shouted.

“Wait, wait-!”

Robert was relieved to see Samuel Shepherd hurrying up the hall. He looked exhausted, and disturbingly enough had a pistol sticking out of the waistband of his trousers.

The matron looked about, irritated at the disturbance.

Samuel Shepherd pulled out his detective badge, showing it to the matron so that she relaxed. “Detective Samuel Shepherd,” he introduced myself. “I know these people--” he spoke directly to Cora. “Come with me.”

At once, the Crawley’s followed after Detective Shepherd down the hall. He walked with a quick pace, exhausted and harried as he spoke rapidly.

“Sorry for the change of plans but things got rather out of hand,” Detective Shepherd explained. “I didn’t want to risk driving him an hour away when I knew the hospital was close. He ended up overdosing-”

“Is he alive?!” Cora broke across, begging to Detective Shepherd, “Is he going to survive?!”

“Yes, and yes,” Detective Shepherd promised her. “But he’s resting now, and has had his system flushed-”

They’d reached a private room, but instead of allowing them to walk straight inside, Detective Shepherd paused at the door and held his hand across it, barring them.

“It’s not going to look nice,” He warned Robert.

“I don’t care about nice,” Robert begged. “I care about my son- I beg of you let me in-”

Detective Shepherd held his hands up in mock surrender. At once, Robert wrenched the door open.

The room was small, and held audience to a few pieces of medical equipment, a curtain divide, and a hospital bed upon which a pale listless form lay.

Thomas looked nothing like the son that Robert had last seen. All the color was gone from his face, all the light from his eyes. He looked thinner somehow, more gaunt and devastated. It was like the weight of all he’d endured was crushing him into the dirt, rendering him flat and lifeless.

Cora let out a noise that was almost animalistic, flinging herself upon Thomas and cradling him to her chest. He was conscious but only just, and did not seem to register who they all were.

“Oh my god-” Edith whimpered in the background. Unable to be of much help, she clutched to Mary, trying to support her.

“Stay back, stay back-” Tom begged her, “Don’t crowd him, let your parents go first.”

Robert reached out with both hands frightened to find them shaking, and carressed Thomas’ face with his thumbs. Cupping his son’s cold cheeks in his hands, Robert tried to get Thomas to look at him.

He wanted to weep.

“Thomas- James-- James look at me,” Robert begged. Thomas blinked slowly, his breathes unnervingly soft.

“Mom,” Thomas whispered.

“Yes, yes-” Cora babbled, a wild smile spreading across her cheeks. She held his hand to her own face, her grip on his deathly tight. “Yes, I’m here now. I’m here now… nothing can hurt you anymore.”

But Robert knew that this was not true. It had not mattered whether they were near or not. Thomas had still suffered all the same. Behind them, Mary was beginning to cry, taking comfort in Tom who allowed her to weep upon his collar.

“Angel…” Thomas whispered the word, eyes glazed over. “There was… an angel- I saw him-”

“I know, I know-” but Cora did not know. She was only trying to make Thomas stop talking. Trying to get him to rest. Her smile was turning to pain and tears in her desperation. “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me darling, I know-”

“Gabriel,” Thomas could barely form the name with his lips. “Gabriel has a… gun…”

“Darling, no-” Robert almost felt like laughing though there was nothing funny about any of this. “That man wasn’t Gabriel, he was a detective. I asked him to look for him, to help us find you-”

“... Detective?” Thomas seemed to have trouble comprehending. “Gabriel? Detective?”

“Sweetheart, it’s alright-” Cora begged of him. “You don’t have to understand, just rest. Just close your eyes and rest-” her voice broke on the word. “When you wake you’ll feel much better, you’ll see-”

But Thomas was growing more aware of himself it seemed, instead of being angry or reluctant, he grew hysterical. He was clutching to his mother, his hands bone white-

“I saw her-” He whimpered. “I saw her and I couldn’t understand her- I’m sorry-”

“What are you sorry for?” Cora begged. “You’ve done nothing wrong sweetie-”

“I saw Sybil-” Thomas choked out. “She was… she was trying to tell me something-” His words were garbled through tears which now spilled in hot salty waves down his face. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t talk back… I’m so sorry-”

Cora’s bottom lip quivered wildly.  
With the strength only a mother could possess, Cora stroked Thomas’ tears away, and spoke in a hushed whisper to sooth all his fears.

“She was watching over you,” Cora whispered. “She was saying a prayer to send you home to me. That’s all... “

Cora blinked. Two tears fell down her cheeks.

“She came down from heaven to find you,” Cora croaked. Robert looked away, desperate to hide his own tears from his wife. “She heard my prayers… I asked her to find you and send you home. And she did. That’s all she was saying. She was saying ‘go home, Thomas’.”

Thomas was beginning to breath better, as if unloading the ache of his grief had helped him to feel more himself. He pinched his eyes shut so that two more tears trickled out. But instead of falling they merely crept upon his cheeks.

“She was… so beautiful-” Thomas croaked. “Just like… before.”

Cora beamed through her own tears.

“Just like you,” Cora whispered, stroking Thomas’ cheeks and hair again. “Now lay down, sweetheart, and go to sleep. And when you wake, I will be here, I promise you.”

Robert and Cora worked together, laying Thomas back against his shallow pillows. He stared up at his parents agog, mild clearly spiralling from the force of drugs. Yet as he closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, Robert had to fully turn away to wipe his face erratically.

Shame burned hot and deep within him; shame and terror. At the door, Detective Shepherd watched everything.

“My god-” Robert groaned into his sleeve. “My god why my son-?” Crumpling into the visitor’s chair, Robert grabbed fistfulls of his own hair in an attempt to ground himself.

 

At Thomas’ side, Cora still stroked his hair and his face. She was whispering a lullaby to him, too soft to be heard by the others.

“This could have been worse,” Detective Shepherd assured them all. “Much, much worse. I spoke with the doctors when they brought him back to his room… He nearly overdosed but he can recover. We have a plan, so let’s put it into action. Let’s take him somewhere that he can heal and recover properly. Rustington.”

“This is all my fault-” Robert croaked, mindless to Shepherd’s words. “Months ago… I held him in my arms. The world was right. How could we have fallen so far, so quickly.”

“He needs help, Robert,” Tom spoke up. Mary was still hiding her face upon the crook of his neck while Edith stood comfortingly at her side. “He’s out of control.”

“Who do I blame for this?” Robert begged the ceiling. “Who do I hold responsible if not myself? Who did this to my son?”

“Your son did this to your son,” Detective Shepherd advised. “Because he doesn’t know how to control his emotions and he suffered a devastating loss. He may not have loved Philip Prevette, but he hurt when the man died… and frankly, I think he felt responsible. This was more than just grief, it was guilt. It’s like your son in law says… he needs help.”

“He’s masochistic,” Tom advised.

But Robert was still lost in thought, unable to reply to his fellows.  
He rose from the visitor’s chair, stumbling over to Thomas’ lone window so that he might look outside onto the darkened sky.

“I hold onto one thread, and another is jerked from my grasp-” Robert whispered. “My father-- I feared him when I was young. He was so foreboding, so strong. It was like the entire world rested between his shoulder blades. Like he was god.” He paused, wondering up at the starry sky now hidden by heavy clouds. Snow was beginning to fall.

“What am I to my own son?” Robert wondered. “Am I a broken god, unable to hold the weight of the world? Or am I the devil who pursues him into the dark?”

“You’re his father,” Detective Shepherd answered. “You’re all those things and more. To men like us… men like Thomas… older male role models in our lives are incredibly important. He needs you more than you know.”

But Robert could not save his son.  
He looked over at Thomas, now asleep in Cora’s arms. Cora was whispering prayers into his temple, all but crawling into bed with him so as to protect him in his sleep.

“...My father was God,” Robert whispered. “But now God is dead, and I am in charge. And all I can do is withstand the weight as long as possible… until I can bear it no longer and break like my father before me. If I could, I would spare my son the weight of the world forever.”

“He wouldn’t want that,” Detective Shepherd said.

But Thomas could give no reply either way. He was asleep in his mother’s arms, and when he woke who could say what state he’d be in? Would he be lucid? Would he be in pain? Would he be furious at being found out, and unwilling to speak to any of them? Would he even remember tonight, or how he cried in his mother’s arms?

And beyond that, what would happen? Would Rustington be able to save him, or would they fail just as Robert had failed? Would there ever come a day when all of them were peaceful and together again?

All for one fucking foolish love affair… and the weight of a crushing world.

“... I have destroyed the thing I love,” Robert whispered.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it vital to note that this story does have a happy ending, and everything that I do, I do for a reason (though I should hope you trust me by now).


	8. Rustington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas begins to recover at Rustington Hospital, only to find that easy solutions are shortcoming.  
> Meanwhile, a vagrant searches for shelter in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay. I turned my thesis in on Friday, and I'm exhausted. It's an original story about a homosexual footman in Victorian England. If anyone wants to read it, let me know, and I'll put up a link. It's also a ghost story, if you're into that sort of thing. 
> 
> warnings for this chapter include **references to drug withdrawal**

He sat with his back to the door, slouched in a wooden desk chair. The window through which he gazed was slowly becoming covered in snow; the new year was being rung in with hardly any cheer.

Nurse Heathrow watched from the door to the Canary Wing, unsure of what to make of their ‘dark horse’ patient. At her elbow, her protege Nurse Callow watched silently.

“Anything?” Nurse Callow whispered to her superior.

“...Not yet,” Nurse Heathrow replied.  
Perhaps sensing that her patient needed a bit of quiet, she shut the door. Slowly, she and Nurse Callow began to make their way down the hall back towards the main staircase. They still had rounds to do before they could take a tea break.

“Is it true he told Dr. Rhodes that he would perform sexual acts upon him?” Nurse Callow whispered. She had to walk rather quickly to keep up with her boss.

“Do you know why caged birds sing, Mary?” Nurse Heathrow replied. This was the way she worked; she never spoke about patient affairs, at least not directly. Nurses who did didn’t tend to last long.

“No,” Nurse Callow replied.

“Because they can’t fly,” Nurse Heathrow grumbled, “Now get a move on and check room 22 for needles.”

Slightly cowed, Nurse Callow headed on up the hallway.  
Nurse Heathrow, in her solitude, glanced back up the hall towards Thomas Crawley’s room.  
It was still silent.

 

~*~

 

Despite having been initially relieved to see his mother, when Thomas came down from his opiate high he was far from delighted to be surrounded by his family. Shaking, seizing, filthy, and naked, all his privileges and responsibilities of adulthood were rescinded. He was no longer allowed to be alone. He was no longer allowed to make decisions about his own health or his place of rest. He’d thought, par the moment, that he’d be made to return to Downton Abbey. But when he’d been forced to wash with his mother present and dressed in clothes brought from home, he’d been put not in the Crawley motorcar but a train to West Sussex. His mother had gone with him, along with Mary and (for whatever reason) Tom Branson.

In a private train car, he’d been kept a bit like a bird in a cage, allowed to bounce about but unable to leave.

He’d never felt this horrid in all his life.

His muscles were spasming out of control, bringing him to such wretched misery that he ended up groaning on the floor of the train. Every atom of his being, every stitch that made him human, seemed to be running slower. His brain was crawling in on itself, eating itself, and there was nothing he could do.

“I’ve gone to hell-” Thomas whispered aloud, before gagging and dry heaving. His mother, unable to protect him from his own follies, merely held him about the shoulders.

“We will get through this,” She whispered in his ear. “I swear to you, we will get through this.”

But every second seemed to crawl, every minute seemed to drag, and an hour felt like an eternity at this rate. There was nothing to do by lay on the floor and suffer while Tom and Mary looked on uncomfortably and his mother tried to get him to drink some tea. At times, delirium swept over him and Thomas could swear he was watching himself from above; his skin was waxen, practically see through and covered in cold sweat. His hair was plastered to his head; he looked like he’d just gotten out of a frigid bath.

“Fucking god,” Thomas croaked as he shook like a leaf upon the floor.

When they finally arrived in Sussex, Thomas was picked up from the train station by an ambulance. His family was allowed to ride however they chose, with Mary and Tom finally settling for sitting in the front and Cora sitting in the back to keep him company. Thomas was laid upon a stretcher, too weak to move; he could hear snippets of conversation but the words meant nothing to him.

_“-- all normal, I can assure you. We’ve seen worse.”_

_“How could this possibly get worse?”_

_“-- had a man defecate on himself once.”_

_“To every cloud a silver lining.”_

While Thomas mercifully did not shit on himself, he was still convinced that he’d hit bottom. When the ambulance rolled to a final stop, the back doors were swung open and Thomas was unloaded from the ambulance with four men to carry him. Each were wearing white, looking completely at ease like every day involved handling a dying drug addict. The sky overhead was white and blinding, with the tiniest bit of snowfall trickling down. Had he been in a brighter state of mind, Thomas might have remarked how beautiful of a day it was. Instead, he could only note that a massive building was looming overhead.

Someone was talking to his mother, but Thomas could not see them:

“Lady Grantham, how do you do? I’m Dr. Welkins. I spoke with Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson on the phone… I run Rustington.”

“Doctor Welkins,” his mother sounded utterly relieved to be in the presence of a professional. “Thank you so much for your kindness. I was terrified he’d die-”

A man with a large handlebar mustache suddenly appeared in the field of Thomas’ vision. He did not wear white, and instead looked well dressed like a member of the upper class. He was smiling faintly, and had kind brown eyes.

Thomas grimaced, wishing he could tell the man to fuck off.

“Die?” the man mused, cocking a bushy eyebrow. “Perish the thought, M’lady. Your son has too much fight in him.”

He even had the nerve to shake Thomas’ hand, which frankly was nothing more than the act of reaching down and grasping Thomas’ slackened hand from where it lay at his side upon the stretcher.

“Thomas, my name is Dr. Welkins.” Dr. Welkins said. “I’ve been placed in charge of your recovery here at Rustington. I’m glad to see you with us.”

Thomas only groaned in response. He felt like he might have diarrhea at any moment; how was it possible to be in even more pain than before?

“I understand you’re recovering from an opium overdose. The body’s defenses are lowered, so you’ll probably be feeling very weak and light headed. It’s all normal, I can assure you.” Dr. Welkins then patted him on the shoulder and moved away, speaking once more to his mother. “Why don’t we all come inside? Mr. Copper! Please take Lord Downton’s bags. We’ll head straight to his room.”

Suddenly the world was spinning, shifting, and Thomas’ gaze slid over the ceiling of an entryway. The roof was paneled in beautiful rose tiles, each of which had probably been carved by hand into oak slabs. The rooms were grand and tall, reminding Thomas of home, and he briefly wondered in his delirious state if Rustington had once been home to a noble family.

“ I wanted to… to observe his room, if that’s alright.” Thomas saw Cora flit in and out of his vision; she was walking at his side, near his head. “I’m nervous. I’ve never had a child need to… convalesce.” The word was shameful to her, and a burning reminder to Thomas that he’d utterly failed all his families expectations.

It made his stomach twist into yet another awful knot.

“It’s not so horrid,” Dr. Welkins consoled her. Thomas could her a cat meowing, and sound of what was surely two men playing ping pong. “I think you’ll find nowadays that people are convalescing for all sorts of reasons. It’s hardly a black mark on a man’s character. It’s better to ask for help than to be too prideful.”

Cora was still none too sure.

“This is a place of rest, not an asylum,” Dr. Welkins explained. “We’re hardly a madhouse. We offer aid to members of the gentry and middle class from time to time, mostly recovering from trauma. We deal with war trauma, suicide attempts, drug addictions, alcoholism, postpartum depressions, eating issues… really a myriad of concerns.”

Overhead, the ceiling shifted. They’d entered into a hallway which might at one time have lead to sitting rooms or tea parlors.

“Each wing of the house is dedicated to a particular team of nurses who are trained to deal specifically with a major concern. Thomas will be on the Canary wing.” Dr. Welkin’s paused as they passed by a door behind which a great deal of chittering could be heard.

“What on earth is that?” Tom asked.  
“We have an aviary that we boast,” Dr. Welkins said. “Patients can care for birds and take comfort in their presence. They’re actually quite therapeutic.”

“That sounds quite pleasant, doesn’t it mama?” Mary offered helpfully. “Thomas will like that, when he’s up and walking again.”

Fuck birds, Thomas thought bitterly upon his stretcher. Nothing seemed worth getting fussed over; he was certain he was either going to die or shit his pants any second now.

“ Indeed, this place is meant to be pleasant,” Dr. Welkins agreed. “Its’ quiet, out of the way, and very low in regards to pressure. We have a team of psychiatrists who commute to and from London and Manchester, they come by three times a week to do both private and group therapy sessions. We have pools for swimming, grounds for walking, and offer a wide range of activities like gardening and bird watching. It’s all very regulated but peaceful. The goal is to get our patients out in the world again, and enjoying life.”

They’d reached their destination, or at least one part of it. The group paused, and Thomas faintly heard an odd clunking metallic sound like gears were shifting near his head.

 _They’re going to shove me into a machine,_ Thomas mused. At least he wouldn’t be feeling like hell if he was dead.

“This is our elevator,” Dr. Welkins explained. “We use it to transport critical care patients… the stairs are for the public. We try not to let recovering patients see new patients when they first come in. Sometimes it can spawn a relapse.”

“Oh dear,” Cora murmured.

They entered the elevator, and when everyone was safely inside, Dr. Welkins used a heavy lift crank to take them up. They rose for what felt like a solid minute, surely going up several floors till they reached what felt like the top. When they exited, they entered upon a quiet wing with soft canary yellow walls.

“This is the canary wing,” Dr. Welkins explained. His voice echoed, carrying down across warm wooden floors and ancient ceilings. Despite it being early winter with snow falling outside and the temperatures dropping to zero degrees celsius at night, the hall was oddly warm. Not uncomfortably so, but the chill from the outdoors did not cut through to the inside.

It was pleasant. It was safe.

“It’s so quiet,” Cora wondered. “Is anyone else on this hall?”

“Nearly all the rooms are occupied,” Dr. Welkins said. “The patients on the canary wing are recovering from drug addiction, so they’re very tired. When they regain their strength, we make them do exercises in the greenhouse. Right now, the patients are either sleeping or are exercising, so Thomas should have a relatively quiet morning.”

They’d reached a door, which Dr. Welkins unlocked to reveal a cozy if quiet bedroom. Thomas was hoisted on his stretcher to lay upon a soft bed covered in a thin white coverlet. When he’d been laid flat, two men took on one side with a third on the other so that the fourth and final man could tug the stretcher out from underneath him in one swift movement. Suddenly, Thomas was flat upon the bed, shivering and sweating despite the room surely being a comfortable twenty three degrees. With his head propped upon two pillows, Thomas could suddenly see the room around him clearly. It hosted a wardrobe, desk, chair, and bureau all made from mahogany, along with a small veranda which lead out onto a thin ledged balcony that overlooked a gray sky.

Thomas’ suitcase was brought in, but instead of allowing it to be unpacked, Cora took it up and held tight to the worn leather handle. “Can he come home for family occasions?” Cora asked Dr. Welkins.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “This is not a holiday retreat, Lady Grantham. It’s a hospital, and he can only leave when he’s well. When that is, is totally up to him. He could be here for a month… he could be here for a year.”

“He’s a bit stubborn,” Tom warned.

“As I say,” Dr. Welkins shrugged. It seemed that Thomas would be spending the next decade stuck in this damn hospital.

“Well, can he go outside?” Cora asked, gesturing to the veranda.

“Not until we know he’s safe from self-harm. Nurse Heathrow carries all the keys. She’s the head matron of this ward-- ah!” as if bade by Dr. Welkins’ mention of her name, a large woman with a face like a bulldog entered the room. She was clearly a nurse, and wore a long dark gray dress over which she had a starched white apron and a chatelaine heavy with iron keys. Her curly brown hair was heavily pinned back, covered by a stiff white cap that bore a thin black line in show of rank. She gave Cora a gentle smile, and took Thomas’ suitcase from her to begin dismantling it by his bureau.

“ I’ll give you a moment to say goodbye… but then I’m afraid you’ll have to make your way home.” Nurse Heathrow declared. “The sooner we can begin, the better.”

“Nurse Heathrow runs this wing with an iron fist,” Dr. Welkins said with a small smile.

“We understand,” Cora said. Though her face was set, her voice was grave.

“Nurse Heathrow,” Dr. Welkins gestured for her to follow him. The pair left, along with the four stretcher bearers, so that the room was cleared of everyone but the Crawley family.

Thomas could not fathom what to say, and anyway he was too weak to get the words out. Instead, he lay shivering upon his cot, knees curled up to his chest to try and hold off on the stomach pains that were destroying him from the inside out. Miserable, Cora sat down next to Thomas and pressed chaste kisses to his sweaty forehead.

“We’ll write,” she declared. “As much as you like.”

“Remember,” Mary said. “You’re only here as long as you dictate. You’re in charge of your recovery.”  
Thomas did not reply. Mary reached out and gently squeezed his hand, only to allow Tom to lead her out. This left Cora and Thomas alone.

Finally able to let her tears fall, Cora wept silently upon Thomas’ temple, holding him tightly in her arms. For so long, she’d been determined they wouldn’t be parted… and now?

“I love you, my little storm,” She whispered into his hairline. “And when you are ready to come home, I will be there waiting for you. Always.”

But she could not stay. Bitter at being pressed for time, Cora wiped her eyes upon her handkerchief, carefully dabbed at the damp tip of her petite nose, and covered Thomas with a hand stitched quilt before leaving the room.

So far gone was he, that Thomas could not even make out the words to tell her goodbye.

 

~*~

 

There had been a few times in Thomas’ life when he’d been ill and had thought the worst of the world. Once, when Mrs. Patmore had accidentally cooked a ruined potato, Thomas had been the unfortunate one to eat it and had spent a few days shitting his brains out before being fit for work again. Another time, he’d caught the cold from Anna, and had sneezed his way through five days before finally being able to breath properly again. When he’d attempted suicide last summer, it had been exhausting just getting out of bed and using the restroom. But none of these experiences rightly covered what it was to endure a withdrawal.

Thomas had never felt so sick in all his life. He had never known such madness, such anger within himself. Everything set him off; everything was unbearable. He could not stand the sound of the clock ticking in the hall. Of the way that the nurses walked by his room. He heard people whimpering and wanted to scream at them, but he was too weak to speak. He had diarrhea, running chills, spiking fevers, and tremors that did not stop. He had to wonder, bleakly in the back of his mind, if this was why Louise was always high. What would happen if Louise was made to stop opium? Would the man even be able to survive it? Thomas doubted it. He’d been on opium for a month, and it felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. Louise had probably been on it for years, so god only knows what his recovery would look like.

And yet, despite the world being set against him and his body hating him for every step he took, Thomas slowly began to recover. For one, he had not sought out opium in pursuit of some kind of golden drugged glory. He took no pleasure from it, or its side effects. He’d merely started, and had been unable to stop. As such, when he finally did stop, he was so intent on never feeling this way again that he had absolutely no desire to so much as even smell opium, let alone taste it. Others at Rustington were not so lucky.

His fellow patients were a myriad rag-tag team of misfits and outcasts, each with money but also with enough problems to fill a potato sack. Some were still in the fits of woe from the war, though it had nearly been over by a decade. They’d shout in the middle of meal times, screaming that battle was upon them. Once, when a car backfired outside, Thomas saw a fully grown man drop to his knees and cover his head with his hands while screaming: “WE’RE BEING SHOT AT!” in a hysterical voice. Some were alcoholics, and prone to sucking down perfume in order to get some kind of drunken buzz. As a consequence, you’d walk past someone and be smacked in the face with a disgusting French stench of stale perfume. Some were new mothers, and absolutely miserable at being apart from their babies. At the same time, however, they were oddly relieved and liked to do nothing more than sit and enjoy the outdoors. A few were suicidal, and they seemed to know when another person was as well. Once or twice, Thomas had caught the eye of an exhausted man or woman, and they’d held his gaze for far too long. One in particular had had her wrists bound. She’d been staring at his own wrists, as if she could see through his shirtsleeves and knew he’d tried to end his life.

It unnerved him.

But life at Rustington was so leisurely placed around pleasurable activities that Thomas found himself growing slower as a response. When he’d been high, the days had seemed to skitter past like an out of control may pole. Now that he was sober and made to do things like water hedges and feed birds, the days just stretched and stretched. He’d sit and stare at the clock, begging it internally to go faster. Anything to get him the hell out of here.

He hated Rustington. He hated the nurses. He hated the other patients.  
And most of all…? He hated Dr. Rhodes.

Dr. Rhodes was a psychologist from London in charge of several wings. There was nothing entirely unpleasant about the man, save that he was fucking insufferable in his piety. He had a pet cockatoo named Cookie that lived in his office, and had sessions on a rotating schedule with Thomas that always ended with Thomas getting sent away for being ‘unruly’ or ‘rude’. With his bushy brown beard, finely combed and well oiled, Dr. Rhodes looked the part of an Edwardian gentleman…

But he was just like Bates. Saintly, and full of shite.

It was two weeks after Thomas had come to stay at Rustington, and while he was recovering from his opium addiction he was still bitterly miserable. The only good thing about Rustington was that no one seemed to mind if you walked around in your housecoat. In an act of defiance, Thomas had stayed in his striped pajamas from his visit with Dr. Rhodes. Sure enough, when he opened the door, he found Rhodes feeding Cookie a dried slice of banana. He turned, noted Thomas’ dress, and gave him a pleasantly irritating smile.

“Feeling tired today?” Rhodes asked. “I wish I could come to work in my pajamas.”

Thomas did not reply. Rhodes always started off this way, constantly trying to be ‘buddy buddy’ until Thomas wore his patience flat out. Uneager to have a session, Thomas flounced into Dr. Rhodes’ visitor chair and glared sullenly at the man.

Dr. Rhodes, to his credit, didn’t seem to care much.

“You’re starting to look better,” Dr. Rhodes mused. “You have some color in your face. I told Nurse Heathrow that you were to start going outside before the heart of winter really set in on us. You could even make a snowman if you wanted-”

“Do I look the type to make a snowman?” Thomas sneered.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Rhodes replied evenly. “I never knew there was a set ‘type’.”

On his perch, Cookie nibbled eagerly at the banana slice.

  
When Thomas did not make to initiate conversation, Dr. Rhodes sat down across from him behind his expansive polished oak desk, and tried to be more consoling.

“I’ve had a couple of revelations,” Dr. Rhodes said. “And I wanted to talk to you-”

“Talk to me, that’s a laugh,” Thomas muttered under his breath. Dr. Rhodes was mildly surprised.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” He assured.

“You don’t have the slightest fucking interest in talking to me.” Thomas snapped, “This is therapy. You want me to spill my guts to you so you can dissect me.”

“Oh no!” Dr. Rhodes snorted at the idea. “No, no, I’m terrible at dissections. I was tits at it in medical school.”

“ So they’re just giving out licenses to anyone?” Thomas asked.

“Pay em enough they’ll name the building after you.” Dr. Rhodes added with a small smile.

Thomas rolled his eyes, toying irritably with the cloth tie of his housecoat. Dr. Rhodes tilted his head, observing Thomas with a waning smile.

“Thomas, the reason you’re here isn’t because your family is angry at you. It’s because they’re scared for you.” Dr. Rhodes said.

But Thomas didn’t want to talk to this man. Dr. Rhodes did not know him, or his story. All he’d heard, he’d heard from third parties. He had no interest in Thomas’ true nature, or his woes. Eager to be gone, Thomas decided to take the conversation in a nastier direction just to see how long Dr. Rhodes would put up with it.

“They’re scared of me. Of my desire for sodomy.” Thomas sat up straighter in his chair, looking Dr. Rhodes dead in the face, “Do you like sodomy doctor?”

Dr. Rhodes’ expression grew slightly more stiff, “Can’t say that I do, but I’ve never tried either,” he added for clarification.

“Well I love it,” Thomas added far too much weight to the word.

“Live your truth, then,” Dr. Rhodes offered with a smile.

“If you insist,” At this, Thomas rose from his chair, making to leave. When he touched his hand to the doorknob, however, Dr. Rhodes gave a sharp reproach.

“Going so soon?”

“I’m bored.”

“Why not stay longer?” Dr. Rhodes asked. “We can play chess if you like.”  
Thomas tested the handle and noted that it was locked. It seemed it only opened from the outside, during sessions.

“Let me go,” Thomas demanded. “Unlock the door.”

“Go?” Dr. Rhodes took pause with the word. “You make it sound like you’re being imprisoned here.”

“Am I not?” Thomas tested.

“I’ve never known a prison to offer a swimming pool or music lessons.”

He scoffed at this. Did it matter if Rustington offered nice little amenities when its patients were screaming and crawling at the walls?

“Call it what you want,” Thomas said. “This is a prison, and you’re my gatekeeper.”

But Dr. Rhodes still looked far too fucking comfortable, sitting in that leather armchair with his bird on his shoulder. Deciding to up the stakes and play for keeps, Thomas shed his housecoat and crept upon the desk, leaning heavily onto the wood so that he and Dr. Rhodes were nearly nose to nose.

“So what do you want for my freedom?” Thomas asked, seductively. “A release for a release? Do you want me to suck your dick? Hmm?” He eyed Rhodes up and down, noting the man had grown a shade paler. “If I let you fuck me will you let me go?”

Dr. Rhodes blinked, stood up and pulled a braided tassel which hung from the ceiling. “Okay,” He muttered, more to himself than Thomas. “I think we're done here.”

“Oh what a shame,” Thomas sneered. Before Dr. Rhodes could answer, Nurse Heathrow opened the door to the study, only to squint at his robe on the floor.

“I have a rather strict rule about patients and doctors, Thomas. I don’t look to my patients for pleasurable activities. I’m a professional.” Dr. Rhodes said. But Thomas took no offense to it. Rhodes was too saintly to have been an obvious test of his skills. He just wanted to get underneath the man’s skin. Thomas slid off the desk, scooping up his robe to shrug it back on.

“And it hurts my feelings,” Dr. Rhodes said, even as Thomas made to leave. “And it makes me nervous when patients try to come onto me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Thomas said.

“We’re done for the day, thank you,” Dr. Rhodes said to Thomas before telling Nurse Heathrow. “There’s no point in talking if people won’t listen.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Nurse Heathrow agreed.

“Come again!” Cookie blurted out from his perch on Dr. Rhodes’ shoulder. What a good little sales associate he was.

 

~*~

 

 

A week turned into a month, and the icy chill of November rushed into a whirlwind of snow from December. It was a harsh winter, and as a result usual outdoor activities were cancelled. The pool was heated, so many chose to linger there in order to relax. Thomas, however, took no pleasure in frollicking with his ‘inmates’. Instead, he often kept to his own rooms where he read, and wrote on his past. More and more, he turned to page and pen instead of Rhodes, trying to understand all that had occurred to him, and why? From the Barrows to Philip… it was like he’d been born to suffer. Was it because he was a homosexual? Or was it something else?

The only good thing about December tenth, was that it was a month after Thomas’ initial arrival date and he was finally allowed to receive visitors. At first, he didn’t expect anyone to come, but the sun had barely rison on the tenth when Thomas was approached in his room by Nurse Heathrow.

She knocked and entered, her keys jangling upon her wide hips.  
“Thomas, you have a visitor,” She said.

“Who?” Thomas wondered, setting his pen and paper aside.

“Your sister,” Nurse Heathrow said. “Lady Mary.” At this, she stepped aside, and allowed Mary into the room.

She was a vision in her pale blue traveling dress, looking utterly relieved to see him back to himself.

“Oh, Thomas-!” Mary didn’t even care for Nurse Heathrow’s presence. She flung herself into his arms, holding him tightly. “Oh thank god… Mama and Papa have been so horribly worried.” She pulled back just to be sure, scanning his face for any signs of woe. “Are you alright? You still look rather pale.”

“Well I am your twin,” Thomas tried for a joke. It actually brought tears of joy to Mary’s eyes. She hugged him tightly again, smiling against his collarbone.

“I’ve missed you,” She whispered. “So very much.”

“You can stay until three this afternoon, M’lady,” Nurse Heathrow said. “Then I’m afraid visiting hours are over.”

At this, she left, closing the door to Thomas’ room gently behind her. Mary looked about, taking in Thomas’ surroundings. He was still in his pajamas and housecoat.

“I’ve come too early,” She chastised herself. “I should have let you rest more, but I just had to see you.”

“It’s alright,” Thomas promised her. “Let me get changed, we can take a walk. You might as well see this madhouse for what it is.”

“Oh don’t tell me that,” She groaned, flouncing upon his bed. “I was fretting about it for weeks.”

“It’s not so bad,” Thomas grumbled, opening the doors of his wardrobe to fetch a simple pair of trousers and shirtsleeves. “They’re not completely mad here, just mad enough to need help.”

Mary was hardly consoled at that.

 

After Thomas was dressed, he took Mary downstairs to the only place that he figured would give them peace: the aviary. It was directly connected to the Canary wing, and so early in the morning the birds were just starting to rise. They were generally a cheerful sort, eager for company and food, and every so often they’d belt out a song or two. Thomas’ particular favorite was a cage of mourning doves near the far wall, who did nothing but sit, shit, and coo. They were calming to him, and he showed them off to Mary who was mildly impressed.

“They’re quite pleasant,” Mary mused. “I wonder if we might install one at Downton.”

“Carson would hate it,” Thomas said. “Too much cleaning.”

Mary sat down beside Thomas on a flagstone bench, watching him pensively. “Are you alright? Truly?” she asked.

He shrugged, and opened the cage of the mourning doves to pull one out so that he could stroke it against his breast. They were used to him by this point, and put up with him in that benign way only birds could possess.

“Not exactly,” He admitted. “I hate this place. I hate my doctors. I hate everyone here. Fucking pretentious.”

“It must be terribly hard,” Mary agreed. “To talk about things that hurt.”

“I don’t,” Thomas said. “I refuse to speak with that idiot Dr. Rhodes. All he does is act like a saint and feed his bird banana chips.”

He glanced at Mary to find her looking miserable. In an effort to cheer her up, he sat down next to her and passed her his dove. She took it bemusedly, to hold it with both hands in her lap. The dove stared up at her as if to ask, _What now?_

“How are things at home?” Thomas asked.

“Oh, I suppose the same as ever,” Mary said. “Papa’s stomach is getting better, thank god. Mama is doing well with the hospital. She even convinced them to get an Xray machine straight from London. I suppose the biggest news is Edith’s wedding date which has been set for December thirty-first.”

“Thank god,” Thomas sighed, “I can’t wait to be shot of this place. Only a few more weeks and I can go home.”

Mary was silent, looking terribly embarrassed. “Well… that’s just it…” Mary said. “Everyone wants you to stay here.”

That felt like a punch to the gut.

Everyone wanted him to stay at Rustington for Edith’s wedding? But why? Why, unless they truly were so horribly ashamed of him that they felt he would embarrass them all. The thought of being viewed as such a black sheep filled Thomas with self-disgust and pity. He sat there, silent, unable to get the words out for how much he loathed his circumstances in that moment.

He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to be with Edith for her wedding. If he missed that, he would never get a chance to make up for it again. For the rest of his life, he would see pictures of her wedding day and not be in them. That day would slip past him, like water flowing through his fingers.

It burned him, deeply.

“They don’t want there to be any scandal,” Mary explained. “And after everything that occurred at the Dark Horse, they’re concerned people will talk. A great deal of people in our circles know what you did, and they view it as a temporary madness. If they see you at Edith’s wedding, they won’t focus on her. They’ll focus on you.”

Still, Thomas said nothing.

Mary stood up, and carefully put the mourning dove back in its cage. The bird went willingly, and when she shut the door it felt like she was shutting Thomas back up inside Rustington.

“They’re not trying to be cruel,” She whispered.

He rose up, and walked a few paces away to hide his facial expression while grief flitted across it. He didn’t want Mary to know how much it burned him.

“You’re angry…” Mary said.

“M’fine-” Thomas lied.

“No, you’re not,” Mary refused to even allow him to finish. “I know you better than that, Thomas. Dr. Rhodes says that you’re susceptible still to outside influences, and mama and papa are terrified that something could set you over the edge. They want you to be safe, so much. So do Edith and Bertie. When papa told her you wouldn’t be at the wedding, she cried. She’s terribly upset, but she knows that this is what’s right. I hate it, as much as anyone else, but i’d rather you be safe that socializing with people that might stab you in the back.”

“I’m the family embarrassment,” Thomas scoffed. “Everyone loves a good side show.”

“You’re recovering from an addiction,” Mary chastised him. “You’re hardly an embarrassment.” but her words didn’t make sense, and it seemed that she knew it.

“... I don’t…” Thomas was speaking without thinking, his mind oddly on mute. “ I don’t feel well. You better go.”

Mary knew when to take a hint. She walked over and placed her hand delicately upon Thomas’ shoulder. “I’ll be back,” She promised him.

“Give Edith my love,” Thomas whispered. “Tell her….”

He paused.

“Tell her I like Bertie Pelham,” Thomas said. “And I’m glad it’s him.”

“I will,” Mary pressed the softest kiss to his cheek. “This isn’t forever, Thomas. It’s for as long as you make it. And the sooner you talk to Dr. Rhodes, the sooner you can go home. To us.”

 

~*~

 

  
But it wasn’t as simple as all that.

Knowing that he was not to attend Edith’s wedding had taken all the wind out of his sails. He kept imagining the day, and how his sister might look in her wedding dress. She would be a sparkling beauty, he knew. He wondered, would she carry lilies in her bouquet or white roses? He imagined Bertie in a tux, looking a bit of a fool with a goofy smile upon his handsome face. The after party would be exquisite, with the wine overflowing. They would be applauded off, sent on their honeymoon by a wave of well wishers and beloved friends.

But not Thomas.

Therapy sessions with Dr. Rhodes after that were one sided and stiff, with Thomas refusing to say more than three words. Dr. Rhodes seemed to sense that Thomas was undergoing some sort of internal malaise, and did not make to push him as he’d done in the past. Instead, he merely thanked Thomas for his time after every visit, and promised they would talk again soon. Honestly, Dr. Rhodes would get more progress out of trying to interview his cockatoo.

As December slowly slid away, Christmas Eve found Thomas terribly depressed. Even when he’d worked on the staff at Downton, it still had be slightly nice to enjoy Christmas music in the hall and a bit of sliced ham from Mrs. Patmore. At Rustington, the meals were traditional but not nearly as well cooked. The communal fire place had served earlier as a ring of yuletide gaity, with a few of the longer term patients even daring to put up a tree. Thomas had not joined them, instead sitting in a leather armchair by the fire and watching it slowly burn out. Now it was close to ten at night, and nearly all the patients were in bed. Ten was time for curfew, and it was strictly enforced by all head nurses (included Nurse Heathrow).

“They’re serving punch in the common room upstairs. I thought you might like to know.” Thomas stiffened at the familiar voice of Dr. Rhodes, looking slightly to his left to note a shadow in the periphery of his vision. He did not answer the man.

“Everyone’s gifts have arrived for tomorrow. I suspect you’ll be filled with Christmas cheer too. Hoping for anything in particular?”

Thomas checked his wristwatch, and noted that it was five to ten. He looked back up at the fire, “It’s ten at night,” He said.

“Close to curfew,” Dr. Rhodes agreed.

“Why are you here?” Thomas asked.

“It’s my shift,” Dr. Rhodes said.

But this only angered Thomas more. Dr. Rhodes could rightfully leave whenever he liked, citing the spirit of Christmas, and could return home to London where his family was no doubt waiting for him. He’d wake up tomorrow surrounded by loved ones in a familiar setting, getting to eat his favorite dishes and listening to the king make a speech on the wireless. Instead, Dr. Rhodes had decided to spend Christmas Eve here, at Rustington.

He had the choice to leave, and he’d stayed; Thomas, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to leave.

He rose from his chair, walking across to the door which would lead him back to the entrance hall and the stairs to the Canary Wing.

“Thomas,” Dr. Rhodes called after him, for the first time showing irritation in his voice. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

At the door, Thomas gave the man a scathing look that he hoped stung. “Go home to your family,” Thomas chastised him. “It’s Christmas Eve for fuck’s sake.”

He closed the door on Rhodes, glad to note the man looked slightly taken aback.

 

~*~

 

Christmas at Downton Abbey was cheerful, but nearly as talkative than in years past. A strange gloom hung over their heads, though Edith was bright and gay, and Tom was quick to tell a joke. There was an unbelievably obvious space at the table, the lone chair glaring at everyone from where it lay against the far wall. Cora, once a great lover of Christmas, now refrained from the yuletide glee to instead sit by the fire and do needlework in the fading light.

Robert watched all of this and said nothing. They could not speak about Thomas; it hurt too much.

The only mention that Robert dared make was at the Christmas toast, when he held his glass aloft and asked his family to toast to their family: “Far and wide, beloved all the same.” When he’d noted Cora looked crestfallen he’d added what was truly in his heart. “And to Thomas, my dearest son. May he return to us soon.”

“To Thomas,” They’d all toasted and drank.

 

Edith’s wedding went off without a hitch, though getting all the flower girls together had been a nightmare. The day had been full of surprises, with Anna going into labor and giving birth in Mary’s bed of all places. Not that the poor girl had had much of a choice, of course, but it had still been a queer thing to think about. Now the Bates were on their way home with their newborn son William, and Edith and Bertie were no doubt halfway to Liverpool where they’d catch a boat to Greece for their honeymoon.

Edith had promised to call when they reached their hotel. As it stood, Robert sat waiting in the library mulling his evening over a small glass of port. Cora was at his side, her head upon his shoulder. The pair of them were close to falling asleep, but would not do so without knowing their middle child was safe.

“What a day….” Robert had sighed, petting Cora’s hand fondly. “Golly gumdrops. Edith’s a marchioness and Bates is a father.”

Cora smiled gently, her eyes closed.

“Are you quite alright?” Robert asked her. “It’s been an exhaustive week, hasn’t it?”

“... I’m thinking about Thomas.” She whispered. “He should have been here today.”

“I agree,” Robert said at once; it had stung not to have his son near, both for Christmas and Edith’s wedding. “But Dr. Rhodes made it clear that he’s still tender to influences. I hate that he wasn’t here for Christmas; it makes my stomach clench. And to think he missed Edith’s wedding too is downright awful. He should have been here with the family, but Dr. Rhodes refused to give him access.”

“But what influences could have found him here?” Cora wondered, slightly irritated.

“I don’t know,” Robert admitted. “And that’s what scares me.”

For a moment they were silent, each of them soaking up the realization that today had not gone accordingly to plan. Now more than ever, Thomas’ absence was achingly obvious.

“... It’s awful isn’t it,” Cora spoke so softly that Robert could barely hear her despite sitting next to her. “The Duke, shooting himself.”

“He was sick,” Robert whispered back. “Sick in the soul.”

“...Do you wonder if we maybe made it worse?” She looked up at him, her beautiful brown eyes so full of worry.

That was something to think about, wasn’t it. Had they made it worse? Robert just couldn’t say. The Duke’s affairs had been utterly cut off to him. They’d hardly been friends, and they certainly weren’t equals in rank. “I don’t know,” Robert finally admitted. “I’ve tried not to think about it. There was nothing we could truly do in the end. His wife was the one to speak to, and she was…”

But was there a word for the Duchess, besides vile?

“Wretched,” Cora agreed. Robert looked down at his wife, and found her crestfallen. “I’ve heard things from others. Things that she said about Thomas. She claimed to another member of the gentry that Thomas had performed sexual acts with Arion because he was inverted.”

Robert grimaced, instantly disgusted by such an obviously false and vile notion. Who would believe such luancies? “Sick woman,” He growled. “As if anyone would believe such a disgusting thing.”

For a moment, Cora grew terribly somber. “Do you think me a bad mother?” She whispered.

“I think you a bad nothing,” Robert assured her. Just to seal the deal, he gently kissed her upon the head.

The phone rang, and both of them let out a gentle sigh of relief.

 

~*~

 

It was January first, but the hour was still somewhere close to one in the morning. Sitting up and alone in his room, Thomas found himself staring out at the endless snow in a malaise. He’d received no telephone call today, but hadn’t been surprised. AFter all, weddings were hectic and the after party must have gone on for an age. He’d probably get a call from Mary tomorrow, alerting him to all pressing information and telling him that Edith’s wedding went off without a hitch.

Mostly because he hadn’t been there.

A gentle knock on Thomas’ door revealed Dr. Rhodes, who was carrying a flute of sparkling juice and wearing a gentle smile.

“I thought I might find you here,” Dr. Rhodes said, shutting the door behind him to give them some semblance of privacy. “You missed the New Year’s toast downstairs. I thought I might bring you your glass.”

He offered it to Thomas, which he begrudgingly accepted. A sip proved it was nothing more than sparkling punch, and slightly over sweet at that. He grimaced and set the flute aside.

“Before you ask, my family is with my mother,” Dr. Rhodes said, in a tone that was clearly meant to be comical. “They’re having a whale of a time without me; I’ve been told not to come home until I absolutely must because apparently I’m too boring for New Years.”

Thomas said nothing, staring out the window.  
How he hated the man.

“...How are you feeling?” Dr. Rhodes asked.

“Given the time, slightly tired,” Thomas said.

“I meant about your sister getting married today,” Dr. Rhodes said.

But Thomas did not want to talk about his family with Dr. Rhodes. They were too private, too important for him to rightly get into conversation about. Dr. Rhodes just seemed to scrape every wound in Thomas’ soul raw.

“... I wish you could have been there,” Dr. Rhodes murmured. “I confess, I was the one to deny your visitation.”

Though it was hardly a surprise, it still stung. Thomas bristled on impact, lips pursed tight.

Dr. Rhodes sat down on Thomas’ trunk so that the pair of them were eye to eye. The man looked oddly contright, which only served to piss Thomas off even more.

“I couldn't let you go unless I knew you’d be safe,” Dr. Rhodes explained. “Both from yourself, and other people. You gave me very little choice in that regard. I’m sorry that I made you miss Christmas, and your sister’s wedding, truly I am. But you are my main priority, Thomas. Not your family.”

And suddenly, Thomas realized the gravity of his situation.

Dr. Rhodes was saintly and exhausting, but he was also the only one who could let Thomas leave. Thomas hated the man, and certainly didn’t want to spill his soul to him; the options before him were therefore exceedingly slim. Either he find a way to fake his answers out of Rustington and pretend to get “better” or he stay here for years, missing more family events. Thomas could see before him a whole string of Christmases, New Years, Birthdays, and such… all of them lost on him because of this one irritating man.

That was unforgivable.

“Tomorrow, I’d like to have another shot at a therapy session.” Thomas lied. “A real one, with talking.”

“Do you?” Dr. Rhodes was taken aback. He smiled pleasantly. “That’s a lovely surprise. Why not? We can talk about what you’d like to do in the coming new year.”

“Actually…” Why not go for gold. “I was hoping we could talk about why I did drugs. I want to get better.”

Dr. Rhodes smiled, silent for a moment as he nodded his head aimlessly. When he looked back up, his expression was slightly stony. “Or maybe we could talk about why you’re pretending to get better just so you can slip past me and leave.”

Thomas’ expression fell slack, all the blood fleeing from his face.  
How had he known-?

“I’ve been doing this job for a very very long time, Thomas,” Dr. Rhodes explained, quite frankly. “I know when a patient is trying to pull the wool over my eyes, and when they actually mean what they say. You have a tell all-- when you don’t mean what you say your eyes go cold. You hide your warmth to protect yourself from a perceived threat.”

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, to deny it all, but found he could not.  
Not when it was true.

“There’s a great deal of pain inside you, Thomas,” Dr. Rhodes said. “The sooner you acknowledge it and deal with it, the sooner you can go home and live your life. Think on that.” Dr. Rhodes rose from the trunk and left closing Thomas door silently behind him.

It felt like he was slamming the bars of a jail cell.

 

He wanted to deny it, but it was true. He wanted to be angry at Dr. Rhodes, to rage and hate him all the more, but suddenly Thomas felt like crying instead of shouting. He was weak, powerless, and small, splayed open before a man who could dissect him like a frog in medical school. He’d missed Christmas, his sister’s wedding, and New Years. He’d no doubt miss even more events all because he couldn’t open up to a man he despised. He’d thought to use old tricks, cunning ploys to get free… but he’d been shot down like a clay pigeon.

He’d been too obvious; he’d thought himself above Dr. Rhodes’ rules when in reality he was not.

Dr. Rhodes had warned him that there was pain inside of him, but that was like gazing out upon a hurricane and remarking that it was a ‘wet day’. There was so much sorrow inside of him that it threatened to eat him inside out, threatened to reduce him to rubble so that he’d never be able to rebuild his life again.

All of this, he was certain Dr. Rhodes knew.  
So what was the solution?

Sorrowful, Thomas rose up from his chair, taking his flute of sparkling glass over to the window. He unlocked it, thinking momentarily to drink some more, only to lift the glass out of the window and let it drop. It fell six stories to shatter with a tinkling crash upon the pavement. In the morning, someone would have to clean it up lest a patient cut their foot on broken glass.

But Thomas didn’t care. He shut his bedroom window to return to bed so that he might fall upon it. Miserable, he found sleep hard to come by, that night.

 

 

Down below in the courtyard, only a foot or so away from the broken glass, a wane and wretched man looking up at the glowing window overhead. Sickly and close to death, the vagrant wondered at who had dropped their glass so deliberately, and why?

But Peter Pelham had more problems than a broken glass.  
He had to find shelter... and fast.


	9. The Beggar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas finds comfort and peace from an unlikely source, resulting in a pathway forward for Dr. Rhodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thesis defense is tomorrow, so I wanted to post this now. I apologize for being a week late, but last week I was getting ready for tomorrow so... it's been rather hectic. No trigger warnings for this chapter. An artwork will be featured in this chapter that is obviously not mine. All credit goes to [Joseph Mallord William Turner](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/joseph-mallord-william-turner-558).

The month of January was oddly warmer, which puzzled everyone and resulted in rain (though it was still utterly frigid). Stuck inside of Rustington for fear of influenza, Thomas found himself utterly miserable in the office of Dr. Rhodes. Their inability to conduct a proper session had left both men feeling unfulfilled, and as a result the only progress or conversation made came in the form of Cookie the cockatoo. Dr. Rhodes might have been a wicked man, but he was clearly devoted to his pet.

“Thomas?” Dr. Rhodes parroted to Cookie, blowing kisses to her with puckered lips. “Can you say Thomas?”

Cookie blinked.

“Thomas?” Dr. Rhodes repeated.

Cookie tilted her head to the side.  
Dejected, Dr. Rhodes pulled back and tutted. “What a shame,” He mused to himself. He reached out with a gentle hand to stroke Cookies’ pearly white feathers, admiring her beautiful plumage. “She’s usually very talkative. I suppose your quiet nature is infectious.”

“And yet you never shuttup,” Thomas grumbled from his visitor chair.

“Well, we can’t have it all our own way, can we?” Dr. Rhodes said with a smile. It was clear he was anything if pleased. There was a sarcastic edge to his voice that Thomas did not appreciate. He wondered if he’d rubbed Dr. Rhodes raw for so long now that the man was finally beginning to drop his professional edge.

“I’ve never had anything my way,” Thomas said, bitterly. If he’d had things his own way, he certainly wouldn’t be here trapped in this room with an idiot and his pet bird.

But Dr. Rhodes seemed heavily irritated by Thomas’ answer. Instead of smiling, Dr. Rhodes grew deflated, laying his hand upon his desk so that Cookie had to shuffle onto her owner’s shoulder to stay up high.

“Tell me something, Thomas,” Dr. Rhodes said. “Why is playing the victim so appealing to you? What does it give you? What do you even gain from it?”

Thomas’ cheeks flooded with heat, as both embarrassment and anger richoched through him. If there was one thing he absolutely detested, it was being viewed as a victim. Despite the hell he’d endured, he’d sworn from an early age that to be pitied was perhaps the most vile action on earth. Pity solved nothing, pity gave no solutions.

“I’m not a victim!” Thomas replied hotly.

“You literally just implied that nothing had ever gone your way. Isn’t that a victim?” Dr. Rhodes shrugged. He’d gotten under Thomas’ skin, and he knew it.

Thomas looked away, burned. How he hated the man!

Dr. Rhodes was silent for one moment; Thomas glanced at the man and noted he seemed to be subdued. He’d gotten his insult in, and now he was clearly regretting it.

“... Summer,” Dr. Rhodes said. At first, Thomas didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about until he said. “July 2nd, 1926. You nearly took your own life with a razor in a bathtub. Why.”

God, who had told him?

It was the fact that they had no relationship, or whatever relationship they had was severely in the negative, that made Thomas want to scream the most. This was not something he was comfortable talking about with people he loved, and here Dr. Rhodes was trying to talk to him when they were probably in the territory of enemies? It didn’t matter if Dr. Rhodes was a psychologist who probably had a bead on why people committed suicide; Thomas still didn’t want to talk to him about it.

“I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he seethed.  
But Dr. Rhodes didn’t even blink.

“Oh, this isn’t about me,” He replied. The smoothness, the speed at which he replied disturbed Thomas. “This has never been about me. It’s about you. You owe yourself the truth.”

“I know the truth!” Thomas replied, angrily.

“Then why can’t you say it?” Dr. Rhodes asked. “Why do you sit here, as quiet as my bird?”  
As if aware that she was now the subject of discussion, Cookie took that moment to reach up with one of her black scaly feet in order to scratch at the back of her neck. A puff of white powder was discharged, which clearly soothed her.

“At least she can scratch her foot with her head,” Dr. Rhodes said, reaching out to lovingly pet Cookie’s yellowing crest. “You can’t even do that.”

“I can endure sodomy and enjoy it, can your bird do that?” Thomas sneered.

“My bird doesn’t have an anus,” was Dr. Rhodes smooth reply.

“Anus!” Cookie parroted. Dr. Rhodes let out an uncomfortable groan.

“Oh my wife is going to kill me,” He muttered. “Of all the words for you to pick up on.”

Yet as Dr. Rhodes fed another banana chip to Cookie, he paused with an alignment of wonder upon his withered face.

“Speaking of which-” Dr. Rhodes looked to Thomas, curious. “You seem to enjoy mentioning your homosexuality to me, in graphic detail I might add. Why is that?”

Thomas bristled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I like making you uncomfortable,” he sneered.

Dr. Rhodes shrugged, “It doesn’t actually. I just find it funny that you mention it so vividly to me when you never mention it at home. At least, that’s what Mr. Carson said.”

The sneer dropped from Thomas’ face; Dr. Rhodes had spoken to Mr. Carson? But when-- and what had the man said?

“...Talk to him much?” Thomas had a feeling that Dr. Rhodes would be able to see through his nonchalonce.

“As much as I need to,” Dr. Rhodes said. This was hardly comforting. “Mostly to get information about your past with him. Because you do have a past,” Dr. Rhodes tilted his head with warning.

“I have nothing with him,” Thomas looked away, trying to interest himself in Dr. Rhodes’ bookshelf. One particular shelf had a human skull on it, which seemed to have some sort of hole in the top like the owner had been impaled by a spike.

“Oh Thomas…” Dr. Rhodes sighed, as if terribly disappointed by Thomas’ answer. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you. But we both know that’s not true.”

 

~*~

 

Nighttime brought fresh snowfall, and a call from Mary. This was the routine, and the only thing which brought Thomas any sort of pleasure while staying at Rustington. The mourning doves were fast asleep in their cage, curled tight about one another with their heads collectively tucked beneath their wings. It was past curfew, and frankly Thomas ought to be in bed before Nurse Heathrow found him out, but still Thomas could not sleep. Ever since he’d heard Dr. Rhodes mention that he’d spoken to Mr. Carson, Thomas had been filled with a sickening sense of dread.

The fact of the matter was, Thomas feared Carson. He had been, up to a point, the only father figure present in Thomas’ life, and each point of disapproval had been like another nail hammering into Thomas’ proverbial coffin. He’d watched William, Alfred, and Andy in turn all mince past Mr. Carson with perfectly sublime remarks… when his own turn had come, there had been nothing but scorn. Nothing but cruelty.

Once, Thomas had let it slip that he’d desired Carson’s help. It had been a pass off comment, nothing to take serious, until the burning reply had scalded him.

_“Are you helping Alfred? I’m rather jealous.”_

_“I don’t see why. He asked for help, you never did.”_

Now, Thomas was in his thirties and bitter at the prospect of being denied a life that could be lived in freedom. He wondered what Carson thought of him now, locked up in Rustington like a lunatic. He probably kept a stern face in front of the staff and the family, but gloated in private.

Mary, on the other hand, disagreed.

_“But what could Carson have said?”_ Mary wondered. Their phone call was a quiet thing, with Thomas hiding behind the dove cage and Mary alone in the library.

“I dunno,” Thomas mumbled, thumbing a cigarette. “But I don’t want them talkin’, Mary. When I was on the staff, Carson hated me. He treated me like trash.”

_“I can’t imagine Carson doing that to anyone-”_ Mary scoffed.

“Well he did,” There was a time when Thomas might have snapped, might have been furious at being so blatantly shot down when the truth was obvious for anyone who looked hard enough. Now, however, Thomas could no longer summon the energy to defend himself.

Mary was silent on the other end.

_“Why?”_ she asked.

“Because I’m inverted,” Thomas admitted.

_“Thomas-”_ she admonished him with a hushed whisper. _“Please be careful. You can’t say things like that over the telephone…”_ after a moment, she tried for a more pleasant topic. _“Anyway, tell me how you are.”_

“Not well,” He could hardly lie, could he? “I tried to pretend to be better, but Rhodes caught me out. The man is a bloodhound.”

_“Papa spoke with him tonight,”_ Mary admitted. _“Apparently Rhodes speaks very highly of you.”_

“He does?” That was more confusing than the rest all put together. He’d been almost certain that Dr. Rhodes was cursing his existence to anyone that would listen.

_“He says you’re very intelligent,”_ Mary explained. _“That you even taught his bird a new word.”_

Oh indeed he had. “Did he say what that word was?”

_“No. What was it?”_

“Anus.”

For a moment, Mary tried to hide her snickering. Eventually, however, it became far too difficult and so the pair of them were suddenly cackling like mad hens over the idea of a bird shouting ‘anus’ without warning. When the laughter died away, however, Thomas was left with that aching loneliness again.

“ _You’re a delight,”_ Mary charmed him. _“But please try to do as Dr. Rhodes says. The sooner you do, the sooner you can come home.”_

But it wasn’t that simple. Thomas bowed his head, carefully stubbing out his cigarette on the sole of his leather shoe. “I don’t think they’re ever gonna let me leave, Mary,” he murmured. “I think I’m stuck--”

**_Crash!_ **

 

Thomas’ head snapped up, his ears pricked and his heart hammering.

He was almost certain he’d heard one of the compost bins for the winter garden being knocked over, which wouldn’t have been that much of a shock if it hadn’t been followed by a muffled human groan.

Someone was outside, searching for something in the compost bins. But the snow was up to the sills and the hour was crawling on midnight. Who, short of an absolute idiot, would be outside during such an hour.

“I’ve got to go-” Thomas cut Mary off. She’d been talking to him, but he hadn’t been paying attention to what she’d said. “I just heard something odd. I think someone’s outside.”

_“What?”_ Mary was flustered at the sudden shift in conversation.

“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” Thomas promised.

_“Wait-”_ but whatever Mary had to say, Thomas did not hear it. He hung up the telephone upon its cradle, rising up cautiously from behind the dove cages to creep towards the outer door. It was locked with a heavy iron key from the inside; the closer you got to the door the more cold it became.

He unlocked the door and stepped outside.

 

At once, a handful of snow scattered on the stoop, blowing in towards the birds who shuddered at the cold. Thomas shut the door at once, determined not to give them a chill. Now he was the one freezing his royal nibs off! Arms wrapped tight about his chest, Thomas carefully trod around the perimeter of the winter garden, eyes locked on the compost bins which were kept inside a wooden shed to prevent animals from foraging. The shed could not, however, hold back a human. The door was hung wide open, and inside Thomas was given the unsavory view of a beggar on his knees, filthy hands huddled around a rotten potato that was full of worms.

Thomas grimaced, disgusted by the sight as the man bit into the vegetable. The man gagged, horrified at the taste, but unable to deny himself the prospect of food.

There was food in the basement, Thomas knew well enough. Food to host an army, or at least a hospital full of nutcases. As a servant, he could picture the basement of Rustington well… he had a feeling he could find this man food; pity panged deep within him, forcing him out of silence.

“There’s no food in that,” Thomas spoke up. The beggar froze, mouth full of rotten potato. He looked about slowly, his dirty face revealed to be of man surely close to Thomas’ age. He might have once been handsome, when bathed. “It’s a compost heap.”

The man showed Thomas the rotten potato. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” His voice had a deep timber to it, warm but raw. He took that moment to spit out a few worms. “I know I’m breaking in, but I have very little choice.”

“I can see that,” Thomas mused, looking up at the sky. Snow was beginning to fall at a heavier rate. As he continued to watch the man eat the rotten potato, Thomas could not help but be overcome by curiosity. Who was this man? How had he come to be in Rustington’s winter garden, eating a rotten potato? Where had he come from, and who was his family? Why had he been cast out to fend for himself in the dead of winter?

Suddenly, Thomas’ own problems seemed very trivial.

“What?” the man asked, noting Thomas’ stare.

“Who are you?” Thomas asked.

“I’m nobody,” the man replied. He’d finished the potato, and was now searching through the compost bin to see if he could find another vegetable.

“You got a name?” Thomas crept a little closer, eager to get out of the snowfall if he could. His feet were beginning to tingle from cold.

The man paused in his rummaging, not willing to meet Thomas’ eyes. “Once upon a time, yes.”

“Can I know it?” Thomas asked.  
Why couldn’t he shuttup?  
Why couldn’t he leave this poor man alone?  
Why was he so damn curious?

The man looked over his shoulder, gazing up at Thomas with a wary stare as if to weigh the prospects of how much he should say and how much he should keep quiet.

Finally, the man replied, “Peter.”

Rather smug with his silent victory of knowledge, Thomas instantly used it to his own credit: “Would you like some real food, Peter?”

Peter just grinned, thumbing yet another shoddy and wormy potato. “I wouldn’t say no to a rotten carrot or a bit of moldy bread. Have you got another trash can around here?”

So he was a funny one, was he? Thomas jerked his head in the direction of Rustington. “Come with me,” he said.

Peter followed at once, cautious but freezing and desperate for a meal.

Thomas took Peter back to the greenhouse door, opening it so that the pair of them quickly shuffled inside. Thomas locked the door back, and threaded his way through the aviary with Peter on his tail. The halls were darkened, with most everybody in bed save for a few straggling nurses. Careful not to get caught out, Thomas took the green baize door which he’d never before stepped through, and descended a spiral staircase with Peter in tow.

He needn’t have worried. Rustington was quite similar to any manor when push came to shove. The basement was all but deserted, with the lights low, but Thomas could clearly see that it was where nurses came to have their breaks and servants made meals. The kitchen was positively enormous, twice the size of Downton’s, and Thomas made a beeline for the pantry. It was locked.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“Here-” Peter pushed his way to the front, pulling out a lock pick from his threadbare pocket. Thomas watched amazed as Peter managed to break into the pantry, and at once let the man raid the stocks. Peter was momentarily dumbfounded as he stared at all the food. Then, like a mad man, he leapt upon a loaf of sourdough bread and began to tear into it with clear enthusiasm. He ate like a man possessed, devouring the bread, then a sausage link, then an apple, before returning back to the sausage to eat two more.

Slightly chuffed, Thomas decided he would offer his guest some tea. He found a kettle waiting upon the stove, though it was bare of water, and filled it from the tap in the sink. He lit the stove with his cigarette lighter, fumbling a bit with the ash and the soot till he could find a bit of coal that would hold a fire.

It felt comforting to be in a kitchen like this.  
It felt like home.

When he stood back up, he noted that Peter was watching him over his shoulder. He was chewing thoughtfully on yet another sausage link; this had to be his fourth one.

“Forgive my lack of graces,” Peter said through a mouthful of food. “I was once a gentleman but that time is over.”

And to be honest? Thomas could actually see it.

Peter had a strangely handsome air, despite being covered in filth with half a sausage hanging out his mouth. His hair was dirty and limp around his face, but clearly thick and golden as well. He had a strong jaw and broad shoulders, but his skin was sickly and pale. There were deep purpling bags beneath his brown eyes, which spoke of more than just nights on the street. Peter didn’t just looked homeless… he looked downright deathly.

“What happened to you?” Thomas wondered in a whisper.

But Peter just brushed his question off, instead focusing on finishing his fourth sausage. “It’s not important. Your kindness means the world to me.”

Well it was good to know someone in this wide world thought him kind. Thomas gave Peter a bitter smile, sitting down on a rickety stool by the kitchen island. “I’m not always kind.”

But instead of asking his own questions, Peter just provided solutions. They seemed to come so easily to him, like life on the streets had made him wise beyond his years.

“You’re a human being,” Peter reminded him. “Don’t hold yourself to unachievable standards. If you do, you’ll always fail.”

Now that was rather poetic. “You’re rather intelligent for a homeless beggar,” Thomas teased with a smile.

“Well I try,” Peter replied.

The kettle began to whistle; eager not to be caught out, Thomas quickly took it off the hot eye, and poured Peter a cup of tea. Peter watched him entranced the entire time, noting how Thomas carefully pressed the back of a teaspoon against the strainer. Before cutting a slice of lemon and offering the cup on a saucer.

“You pour like a footman,” Peter declared. “The gestures, the fluidity… you pour like it’s an art form.”

Art form indeed; art form in what, slavery? Thomas just scoffed softly, setting the tea before Peter on the kitchen island. “I was a footman for many years.”

“Amazing,” Peter picked up the porcelain cup, allowing it to cool before sipping. “What are you now?”

“... A fuck up,” Thomas said, softly.

“What a coincidence,” Peter toasted him with the teacup that Thomas had given him. “So am I.”

He downed his drink just as fast as he’d eaten the sausages, only to moan appreciatively. The husky timber of his voice vibrated in Thomas’ chest. “Oh god, that’s nectar,” Peter groaned. Yet even as he allowed himself the small pleasure of warm tea on a frigid night, Peter looked over his shoulder back towards the stairs to the upper floors.

“I shouldn’t stay,” Peter said. “I’ll get you in trouble.”

Oh, like that was much of a threat. “Can’t get me in much more trouble than I already am.”

“What do you mean?” Peter suddenly grimaced, shaking his head to say, “Sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

“No, it’s alright…” they’d shared a meal, why not more? “Like I said, I’m a fuck up.”

“And how are you a fuck up?” Peter asked, finishing off his cup of tea.

Normally, Thomas would have lied and made up some ludicrous if swallowable story. But standing before Peter, watching the man drink a cup of tea that Thomas had made, Thomas had to wonder if the truth was better? There was danger in telling a normal man that he was a homosexual. But Peter was not a normal man, and honestly what harm could he do? He might not even make it through the winter.

Thomas gave Peter a bitter smile. “I’m a homosexual who got addicted to opium because my previous lover committed suicide and I failed to help him while he was still alive.”

Peter stopped sipping his tea.

For a moment, the two men stared at one another. He’d expected scorn, maybe even disgust, but Peter offered him neither. Instead, there was an odd sense of understanding in his softened gaze. His brown eyes held depths of compassion that Thomas hadn’t seen in quite a while.

Well… in ever really.

“...I’m sorry,” Peter finally said. “That’s terrible.”

Thomas gave the man a gentle smile. “You’re rather open minded.”

“I’m not the type to judge,” Peter said. He gave Thomas a rather wistful smile, shrugging, “Rather a pot and kettle situation.”

Now that caught Thomas’ attention. What did Peter mean by that? Was he too a homosexual? He certainly hadn’t admitted it outright, if so.

“What happened?” Peter asked. “To your lover, I mean. If you can talk about it.”

But he couldn’t. In the beginning, he’d wanted to rage and scream, to call Philip’s wife a rapist to anyone who might have cared to listen. Now, it was like all the energy had been sucked clean out of him. “... It sort of… snowballed,” Thomas mumbled. “It hurts to talk about.”

“I understand,” Peter held up a hand in a silent command to stop. “I won’t trouble you anymore.”

With that, Peter pocketed three more sausages and an apple before grabbing a whole other loaf of sourdough bread. Obviously, he was looking for his getaway. Yet as he began to head towards the stairs, Thomas called out after him.

“Don’t,” he begged. He felt rather a fool for begging a stranger to stay, but part of him deeply feared the idea of someone as nice as Peter out in the snow. “Don’t go out there. It’s freezing. You’ll die in the snow. Look at you, you don’t even have a proper coat-” Thomas gestured at the man.

Peter was hardly convinced though. He pondered Thomas’ words, a dark expression flitting across his face. “I’m on a rather tight leash. I can hardly stay here.”

But just as there was a basement, so too was Thomas convinced that the attics of Rustington would hold the answer.

“Wait here,” Thomas asked. “Don’t go anywhere. Let me see if I can find a place for you to hide.”

Peter was taken aback, but did as Thomas bade.

Up the stairs Thomas went, leaving Peter in the warmth of the darkened kitchen. It was rather a workout, taking the stairs all the way up to the seventh floor where the attic resided, but still Thomas kept up a quick pace. He didn’t know how much more time was on his side, and he desperately did not want Peter to be discovered.

_“You’re a human being. Don’t hold yourself to unachievable standards. If you do, you’ll always fail.”_

 

It had been the first time in Thomas’ life that someone had assured him it was alright not to be ‘good’. That sometimes ‘good’ was not always possible.

The attics were dark just like the basement, but it was obvious that the staff of Rustington was asleep. These were the chefs and scullery maids, the housemaids and the hallboys that made Rustington all possible. These people worked just as hard as the nurses but received one tenth of the pay and had to be complicit with squallor.

They were more akin to Thomas than he cared to admit.

The storage loft of the attics was surprisingly unlocked, but this might have had something to do with the fact that empty valises were sitting at the base of the stairs. Perhaps the maids had put them here to continue on with work tomorrow? Careful not to make too much noise, Thomas crept up the steep stairs to emerge upon a dark and dusty attic that was rather chilly. Though it was gloomy, Thomas could still see extra mattresses and blankets tucked into corners. He broke into a wide smile, thinking of Peter downstairs. This, surely, would be a much safer place for the man to rest than outside.

Excited to deliver his news, Thomas left the attics and returned to the stairwell so that he could all but skip down to the basement.

“Peter, I found a place for you-” Thomas said, entering the darkened kitchen.  
Yet instead of finding his newfound friend eating another sausage roll or skulking around the counter, Thomas was dismayed to find Peter gone.

There, upon the counter, was a hastily scribbled note with a page torn out of a cookbook.

Thomas carefully picked it up, opening it to read the scrawled handwriting:

_“Nurse came by. Nearly caught me. Thanks for the food, pot._  
_Kettle”_

 

~*~

 

The very next day, fresh snowfall sparkling white and clean upon the lawn of Rustington. As usual, Thomas found his sanctuary in the aviary, but his mind was all askew this morning. He could not enjoy the feeling of a bird cooing into his hands when he considered where Peter might be.

The wickedly wise kettle.

It had been unbelievably refreshing to talk to a kindred spirit, even if they did smell like garbage and wore a years worth of dirt. Peter might have been a beggar, but he was far from a mongrel. He spoke like a scholar, and looked upon life through the eyes of a learned man. He accepted that not everyone was good, but did not hold it against them. When Thomas admitted he was a homosexual, Peter had no scorn for him. No ideas of a gilded tomorrow if only Thomas conceded that he was ‘wrong’. To Peter, nothing was wrong because nothing was right.

Things simply were… and that was terribly appealing to Thomas in this moment.  
It was very difficult to try and find good in the world when no one wanted to show it to him. Being forced to concede that good existed elsewhere was just as brutal. If good existed elsewhere, then why not here?

Why not with him?

Thomas sighed, putting the mourning dove back up in its cage to walk out onto the winter gardens. Snow had hidden what leafy vegetables had once broken through the ground. He considered if Peter had snatched a couple more before vanishing back into the woods. The man was probably long gone by now--

Yet even as Thomas considered how wide and vast England was for a homeless man hiding in the woods, Thomas noticed something rather intriguing on the outskirts of Rustington’s expansive grounds.

A smoke trail rising from the woods.

A small spark of hope lit up inside of Thomas, and though it was foolish to imagine as much he immediately thought the trail might be Peter. Though he was not wearing a proper coat for cold weather, Thomas immediately took off across the grounds. There was an unspoken rule that patients could not exit the estate of Rustington; gates surrounded the entire property to try and keep lunatics from running back into West Sussex. But Thomas had no desire to try and run away, he just wanted to find Peter. If there was a chance his new friend was at the source of the smoke trail, Thomas was willing to risk being seen as a runaway.

_Let Dr. Rhodes sweat,_ he thought viciously. _The man doesn’t actually care about me, anyways._

The outskirts of Rustington’s lawn were rather unkempt in the winter, with heavy layers of snow creating waist high barriers one had to crawl through in order to get into the actual woods. Yet Thomas did this willingly despite the bite of snow because he could now see the fire from which the smoke emerged.

Or rather, who sat by it eating a rat on a stick.

Peter’s fire was a meagre thing, but it still provided the man with warmth. The rat certainly didn’t look appetizing either, with half its fur singed off and its black lifeless eyes staring out like a dolls. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Peter was clearly glad to get his hands on any type of meat he could during such a lean season.

He glanced up, found Thomas approaching him, and broke into a wide grin. His teeth were yellow from lack of cleaning.

“Hello pot,” Peter said. “I dare say that the kettle has missed you.”  
Thomas returned the sentiment fully. He sat across from Peter, and warmed his hands by the man’s small fire. In the dead of winter, the tiny blaze felt utterly glorious.

“Where did you go?” Thomas asked.

“Found a cave,” Peter explained, jerking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the deeper woods where bare branches criss crossed like gnarled arms. “Lit a fire. I made it through by the skin of my teeth.”

“Listen, stay in the attic,” Thomas begged him. “It’s much warmer up there. And there’s mattresses and blankets!”

“Ah, little pot… if they caught me I’d be sent to Gaol,” Peter murmured, he reached out with a wary hand and prodded his swollen rat. Clearly it still wasn’t cooked enough.

“I’d make sure they wouldn’t,” Thomas said, thinking of what influence his father could hold. Perhaps Robert Crawley would be willing to help Peter out if he knew what comfort he brought his only son.

Peter smiled and shrugged. “You’re a brave little pot.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“What?”

“Little pot,” Thomas tilted his head.

“Because I don’t know your name,” Peter chuckled. Thomas blanched. Had he really forgotten to tell the man?

“... I’m Thomas,” Thomas introduced himself. He held out his hand and Peter shook it at once. Thomas noted that he could feel every bone in Peter’s hand. Despite being a strong man, it was clear that he was starving. He needed better food than a roasted rat and a rotten potato on a daily basis.

“Well Thomas, I’d love to say more but I’m afraid our time’s been cut short,” Peter stood up rather abruptly, kicking out his fire. Thomas was taken aback; why had he gotten rid of his heat source?

“What do you mean?” He asked. Peter pointed out across the lawn of Rustington which sat to their backs. Thomas looked over his shoulder, only to pale at the sight of twenty men hurrying across the grounds in motorcars. Motorcars, of all things-!

“Oh shit-” Thomas gasped, staggering to his feet. How far out of bounds had he gone? Would he be in terrible trouble now? “I’m out of bounds-”

But as Thomas looked over his shoulder to tell Peter to run, he found he was talking to thin air. Peter was already gone, with nothing to betray his presence save for a pair of footsteps leading into the woods.

Not wanting his friend to be caught, Thomas immediately kicked snow over the trail so that the men from Rustington would not be able to see.

Thomas stepped out of the woods, his hands raised up in a mock form of surrender. His stomach twisted with anxiety at the sight of Dr. Rhodes sitting in one of the motorcars. As the men surrounded Thomas, a car to each direction, Rhodes immediately got out with a grave look upon his face.

“...Thomas,” The man had to pause in order to smooth his vest and wear a more respectable expression. “Why don’t you come with me?”

 

~*~

 

Dr. Rhodes’ office was ten times warmer than outside, but still Thomas was uncomfortable. His socks were wet from treading through the heavy snow and his toes felt numb in his boots. Dr. Rhodes was just as unhappy, sitting behind his desk with Cookie on his shoulder.

Thomas had practically been drug to the man’s office, the guards of Rustington now on high alert for his possible second “escape”... because no one would concede that Thomas had simply been taking a stroll, as he suggested.

“Why do that?” Dr. Rhodes demanded. “Why go past the edge of the property line and then stop? And not run away?”

“I wasn’t running anywhere,” Thomas snapped, furious at the continuous interrogation. Dr. Rhodes asked for an answer but didn’t like the one he received. He was looking for clues when there were none. “I was taking a walk!”

“Rather long walk, don’t you think? Without a proper coat to boot.” Dr. Rhodes gestured to Thomas’ dress. “And vanishing into the woods?”

“Well I needed a walk,” Thomas snapped. “Shut up in this looney bin-”

“Oh if you think this is a looney bin you are spoiled beyond belief,” Dr. Rhodes scoffed. Thomas was taken aback with the anger in the man’s voice.

“I’ve seen real nuthouses. I’ve worked there-” Dr. Rhodes shook his head from the horrid memory. “People living naked in their own filth, left to die by families that didn’t want to admit they’d given birth to someone mentally deficient. Shave heads, ice picks forced through their eye sockets to make them more complacent-- no aviaries there, I can assure you!” Dr. Rhodes paused, taking a long pause to calm himself.

Clearly Thomas had gotten under his skin.

He took off his round spectacles, cleaning them with his pocket square before placing them back on the bridge of his hooked nose.

“Why did you walk to the woods?” Dr. Rhodes asked. His tone was calm but cold; clearly he expected Thomas to lie.

“ _Please try to do as Dr. Rhodes says. The sooner you do, the sooner you can come home.”_ his sister’s voice echoed in his ears.

“... I thought I saw something,” Thomas mumbled.

“What?” Dr. Rhodes asked icily.  
“I can’t tell you,” Thomas said.

“Why not?” Dr. Rhodes replied.

“... Because you’re going to hurt someone I care about,” Thomas replied. “And you won’t lose a wink of sleep tonight either.”

Dr. Rhodes was taken aback, clearly he hadn't been expecting such an answer. “What on earth are you talking about? What did you think you saw in the woods?”

“A shadow,” Thomas would refuse to concede more. “A ghost or something, I don’t know.”

Dr. Rhodes glowered, eyes narrowed. “You’re lying to me,” Dr. Rhodes said.

“... A person,” Thomas finally spat out. “I thought I saw a person, alright? Now will you lay off?”

Dr. Rhodes paused, his expression still slightly suspicious. Something about Thomas’ words, however, seemed to have struck a chord deep within him.

“And did you see someone?” Dr. Rhodes asked. Thomas refused to meet his eyes.

In the silence that followed his question, Dr. Rhodes rose from his desk to look outside. From the view of his office, he had an excellent view of the expansive white grounds. Now, a corner of the plot was marred by several tire tracks in the snow from where motorcars had rounded Thomas up like a stray cow.

“... I should imagine anyone stuck outside would be in terrible shape,” Dr. Rhodes mused. He drummed thick fingers upon his dry lips, before turning back to look at Thomas.

“You told the truth just now,” Dr. Rhodes said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

Thomas looked down at his lap where his fingers lay twisted upon his thighs. “Well if I don’t start telling you the truth, you’ll never let me go… and I’ll never get to go home.”

Dr. Rhodes sighed, sitting back down behind his desk. Cookie crawled upon his shoulder, carefully scooting down on black scaly feet from Dr. Rhode’s arm to his desk. He began to nibble upon the edge of Dr. Rhodes’ daily diary, without a care in the world.

“I must seem like a cruel jailor,” Dr. Rhodes mused.

“You are,” Thomas could not hide the scathing hatred in his voice. “You made me miss my sister’s wedding, and I’ll never get to relive that experience. For the rest of my life, I will stare at pictures from that day, and know that I am not in them. That I did not get to watch her be wed, or walk down the aisle, or wave her off for her honeymoon… Nothing. And that’s all your fucking fault.”

It burned him to admit it.

For a moment, the two men sat in respective silence. The only noise between them came from Cookie tearing up Dr. Rhodes’ papers and a small fire crackling in the hearth. When words finally did come, it was Dr. Rhodes who spoke them.

“I do believe that is the furthest into your heart you’ve ever let me,” Dr. Rhodes mused. Thomas flushed, finding it rather insulting. “That’s progress.”

“You’re not even sorry, are you,” Thomas scowled.

“No,” Dr. Rhodes didn’t even miss a beat. “I did what I had to to protect you. End of story.”

“You’re really a prick,” Thomas hissed.

Dr. Rhodes just shrugged. “I’d rather be a prick than a bad doctor.”  
At this, Dr. Rhodes waved Cookie away from his diary to pick up his pen and begin to write.

“You’re to stay inside the confines of Rustington proper for the next two weeks,” Dr. Rhodes said. “Until you can earn my trust back, you don’t get the privilege of going outside.”

So that was one more mar against his already black record…  


 

~*~

 

The next week passed by with an agonizingly slow speed, marked only by meal times and baths. While Thomas was still allowed to go into the aviary, he was shocked to find that the door was locked and the key removed. Now both he and the birds were caged, which only made him feel all the more sorry for them. He suddenly wished he could free them all, but to do so during winter would surely kill them. The mourning doves certainly didn’t seem eager to get out into the snow. Instead, they allowed Thomas to hold them for hours, cooing into his hands and eating berries from his fingertips.

At night, Thomas would try to call Mary but more often than not their conversations would be cut short by a roaming nurse. Thomas would be escorted up to bed and Mary would have to wait another twenty four hours before they could speak again. Apparently Dr. Rhodes had called his family to tell them that Thomas had “possibly tried to run away, though his motives were unclear”.

No one was happy with him for it.

What was worse, the snow began to fall even harder as the days progressed on towards February. Thomas thought of Peter constantly, and each night would stare from his bedroom window towards the woods hoping to see the glint of a fire. How long would the man be able to survive out there? Would he be able to make more fires, or would he run out of good kindling? Where was he getting his food from? Was it actually food at all, or just more garbage?

Someone, the idea of Peter being alone freezing cold in the woods was even worse than the thought of Thomas being trapped inside Rustington.

For the first time in Thomas’ life, someone else’s problems occupied his thoughts completely.

There were times when sausage would be served for dinner and Thomas would be unable to eat it, obsessed with the idea that somehow Peter was still able to get into the pantry and would need his own food. He’d give anything to take his own meals and bring them out into the woods. To try and find Peter and feed him better food than a shitty rat.

But he couldn’t.

Miserable at being unable to help the only friend he possessed, Thomas found himself unable to sleep at night. More often than not, he’d creep back down to the aviary to sit in the dead of night staring out at the snow.

Just a smoke trail, just a hint of a fire, just a footprint. If only there was some sign of the man’s existence, he would be satisfied.

That was how, a week after being locked inside, Thomas found himself sitting in the aviary near two in the morning staring out at the snow with his back to the hall.

The dark pressed in around him, the cold feeling unbreakable. Though he’d been keeping watch for close to two hours now, he still hadn’t seen the slightest hint of a fire in the woods. He didn’t know whether it was easier to believe that Peter had moved on, or that he was simply trying to conserve his resources.

Thomas didn’t want the man to be gone, but he didn’t want him to suffer through the night either.

“Hello pot.”

Thomas jumped, his heart rate flying through the roof at the sudden intrusion on his silence. He whipped around upon his chair, shocked to find a darkened shadow lingering in the entrance to the hall.

The figure stepped into the light to reveal Peter, wholly alive and seemingly alright. Thomas broke into a relieved grin, unable to help himself as he staggered up from his seat.

He almost wanted to hug the man, though it was indecent. They were friendly but they weren’t that friendly.

Or were they? Because Peter certainly looked like he wanted to hug Thomas too.

“I’m sorry for scaring you,” Peter whispered. “I had to sneak in.”

“How did you do it?” Thomas wondered, amazed at Peter’s skills.

“Cook left the cellar window unlocked by accident,” Peter explained. “Waited till she went to bed then climbed through. Got me another meal from the pantry too-” Peter pulled several rolls of fat sausages out of his pocket.

Thomas beamed, grateful that Peter had managed to survive the snow storm.

“How about you show me that attic?” Peter whispered. “Or are you in too much trouble.”

“You’re worth it,” Thomas assured the man. Peter seemed slightly less sure, but followed him to the green baize staircase all the same.

Up they went, floor after floor, with Peter keeping good pace despite having been surviving off of rat and stolen sausage for weeks. When they reached the servant’s quarters, Peter hid in Thomas’ shadow, creeping with each step that he took so as not to make noise. The door to the attics was locked this time, but that was no matter; Peter and his lockpick were able to make quick work of the flimsy barrier.

Up into the dark the two men went, the pair of them having to hunch over so as not to hit their heads upon the ceiling of the stairwell. These steps were not meant for everyday use, with steep unforgiving landings. As they emerged in the attic proper, Peter had to stifle a sneeze from the dust.

Thomas took out his pocket lighter, using it as a flame so that they might be able to see better. Cobwebs were illuminated dangerously close to Thomas’ face.

“Oh this is real nice,” Peter mused. He headed towards the stacked mattresses, and Thomas followed him straight behind.

The mattresses were stacked upon their sides in order to make the most of what little space was available. Peter carefully lowered one to the floor, flouncing upon it to groan at the soft touch.

“Christ that’s heaven.” Peter sighed. Thomas noticed a box of spare candles and took one out to light it. He gave it to Peter, who sat it carefully upon the floor after dribbling some melted wax for its base.

Peter took out his sausages from his pocket and began to eat them, toeing off his worn boots to reveal holey socks beneath. Thomas fetched him a blanket, offering it so that Peter might wrap himself up and gain some warmth. Suddenly Peter looked rather like a mountain, with the blanket turning him into a lumpy mass instead of a man.

With only his hands and face sticking out, Peter continued to eat his pilfered dinner. His eyes, however, were roaming all over the attic taking in the multitude of paintings that were stored.

He paused, eyes locking upon one painting particular.  
He gasped.

“I’ll be goddamned,” Peter declared, standing up to take his candle with him. Thomas followed, unsure of what Peter was looking at. “Bloody hell, it’s a Turner!”

Peter crouched down before a painting that showed a dark and tumultuous night at sea. A few fishing boats were forever locked against a swell, their keels pitching and yawing in the storm. Above, a fat yellow moon offered light upon the seen, showing the white caps in the waves and the far off promise of shore.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/163367608@N08/47814154721/in/dateposted-public/)

It made Thomas think of Philip, and how he’d been pitched into the sea of a judgemental society.

“This painting is a Turner,” Peter praised. “What on earth is it doing hiding up here?” He turned to Thomas with a look of disgust that was clearly not meant for him. “Christ, these people don’t know a good thing when they have it. They clearly have no taste in art if they choose to keep it up here.”

“What’s a Turner?” Thomas asked, confused.

Instead of being offended that Thomas didn’t understand art, Peter instead looked quite eager to explain all that he knew. “Joseph Mallord William Turner was his name, and this is one of his paintings,” Peter explained. “And it’s no ordinary Turner either! This was the very first painting he ever exhibited at the Royal Academy. Fishermen at Sea, it was called,” Peter smiled wistfully, carefully holding the candle close to see the painting detail better.

“See this scene, it’s all very subliminal,” Peter was practically an art professor. Who would have guessed a beggar was so well rehearsed in the fields of the arts? “The fishermen represent the fragility of human life. The storm and the swell? That’s the sublime power of life and nature. We're nothing compared to either. Know how much it sold for?” Peter gave him a coy grin. “Ten pounds. Can you believe that? Ten pounds for a fucking original Turner. Makes me want to choke on this sausage.”

Peter took another bite, appraising the painting.

“This thing deserves to be in the National Gallery of British Art…” Peter sighed. “Not kept in a dusty attic. Look at the brushstrokes!” Peter could not keep his enthusiasm in. “Look at the detail. Look at the tiny lantern… and all it represents. Ah, am I the only one with eyes?”

Thomas was smiling, and he hadn’t even realized it.  
He’d never seen someone so enthusiastic… so passionate. It was oddly revitalizing to him after months of solitude in Rustington.

“You’re an artist,” Thomas said.

There could be no denying it after all this, “I am. I confess it.”

“What do you do?” Thomas asked.

“I paint,” Peter shrugged. “What do you do?”

But Thomas had never been afforded the luxury of a hobby. “... Nothing,” Thomas admitted sadly. “I never got the chance to have a hobby.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

But how could Thomas explain to Peter all that had occurred in his life? All the sorrow, all the pain… all the moments wrenched from him because he was different.

“My life’s been… sort of taken from me,” Thomas finally said.

“How?” Peter chewed on a sausage thoughtfully. Despite eating, Thomas clearly held his full attention.

“I don’t suppose you get the chance to go through a paper every now and then,” Thomas said.

“I do, actually. Mostly in bins. Fish and chip places are excellent for finding old newspaper. Why?”

“Ever heard of the Barrow Carney case?”

“I have,” Peter said. “Couldn’t pick up a newspaper for months without catching an eye of that, could you?”

He paused when he noticed the somber expression upon Thomas’ face.  
Peter was scanning his face, searching for something. Instead of coming up empty, however, Peter slowly began to dawn with awful recognition.

“... You’re Thomas Crawley.” he whispered.

Thomas nodded.

Peter brought a dirty hand to his mouth, shocked. “Jesus wept,” he whispered. “But-” Peter looked about at the filthy frozen attic. “But then what are you doing here in Rustington? Surely now that it’s all over you ought to be with your family?”

“Things got out of hand,” Thomas sighed, picking carefully at a spare thread in Peter’s borrowed quilt to avoid looking the man in the face. “Problems from my past just follow me around like a stray dog. They hunt me down no matter where I go. I’m supposed to be here talking to this therapist, Dr. Rhodes. The more I tell him, the more likely I’ll be able to leave this place. But I can’t…”

He shook his head. “It’s all--” was there a word for it? Thomas gestured to his chest where his heart ached. “It’s all just stuck inside me. And I can’t let it out.”

A beat of silence. “Why not?” Peter calmly asked.

No judgement. No scorn. Just curiosity.  
It brought Thomas to tears.

“Because once I start, everything will fall from me, and I’ll be lost,” Thomas was rambling now. “In those black waves-” He gestured to the Turner painting.

Peter considered the weight of Thomas’ words; it felt oddly relieving to share the pain in his heart with this man. Peter, above all others, would know what to do. Thomas knew this implicitly.

“You’ve held onto the pain for so long, you don’t know what will happen when you let go,” Peter mused.

“Yes,” God Peter was a saint to understand him so well. “I don’t know who I’d be.”

Peter nodded, wiping his hands upon the quilt to get rid of residue sausage grease.

“I was much the same way,” Peter said. Thomas listened with rapt attention, wanting to know everything about this man that he possible could. “My family made my life hell. Pure and utter hell. I hated them all, and I could feel that hatred turning me dark. Turning my heart cold. I didn’t want to lose my humanity to them, so I decided to pretend to die. To live my life anew as a completely new person.”

Thomas had never heard of such an amazing feat. How had Peter managed to do it? “That’s so brave,” Thomas whispered in awe. Peter just gave him a timid smile.

“It was amazing,” Peter admitted. “It felt like I’d been reborn again. Like I could see the stars for the first time, and really properly enjoy them. All the weight was lifted off of me. Course… now I’m fishing for rotten vegetables out of bins, so maybe I’m not the best person to seek advice from-”

“No.” Thomas cut the man off before he could admonish himself. “You are the best.”

Peter smiled softly, his brown eyes full of oddly placed affection.  
For a moment, the two men stared at one another, both seeking something from the other they didn’t already know that they had.

“... Fuck it,” Peter whispered. “Give Rhodes a chance. See what happens. You never know, he might just be able to help.”

“He’s a prick,” Thomas said.

“He’s human,” Peter reminded him. “And he’s prone to weaknesses just like you are. Maybe you’ve reminded him that he’s more weak than he thought.”

But the idea of spilling his soul to Dr. Rhodes just seemed stupid when he could talk to Peter instead.

“What if I want to talk to you instead?” Thomas asked.

“Oh, you can always do that,” Peter said with a shrug. “But I’m not the one holding the key to Rustington. Play the game and win the prize, Thomas. Tell Dr. Rhodes the truth, not what you think he wants to hear.”

“He won’t like the truth,” Thomas muttered. “He’ll think I’m lying-”

“Ah, but the truth is amazing in that way-” Peter promised him with a wistful smile. “You always know when someone is telling it… you can see it in their eyes. Look him in the eyes and you’ll see it too.”

Peter was wiser than he knew.

Thomas nodded, getting up and heading for the door to the attic. Peter watched him go with a smile.

“I’ll bring you food tomorrow,” Thomas promised him.

“I’m used to small portions, don’t trouble yourself,” Peter said.

But Thomas was always willing to trouble himself for Peter.

 

~*~

 

Three days past, and still Thomas did not know how to approach Dr. Rhodes. Each day, he brought Peter food but also the news that he had not spoken to the man. Each night, Peter promised him that tomorrow he would find the courage.

Slowly, Thomas began to believe him.

Now, it was after tea time, and soon Dr. Rhodes would be leaving on a train bound for London. He wouldn’t be back until the day after tomorrow.

_“Lalalalla!”_ Thomas could hear the cacophony through Dr. Rhodes’ door.

_“Lalalalalalala!”_ Cookie responded with even more enthusiasm.

Thomas looked down at the door handle, considering just letting it be and walking off.

_He’s a human being,_ Thomas reminded himself. _Tell him the truth, not what you think he wants to hear._

And the truth was a long time coming, in their case.

Thomas gently knocked upon the door. It didn't seem Dr. Rhodes heard him thought, because he simply kept singing to Cookie.

“Lalalalala!” Dr. Rhodes praised his bird. Thomas opened the door to view the pair of them; Dr. Rhodes was heavily relaxed into his swivel chair with Cookie upon his vest lining, the pair of them singing mouth to mouth.

When Dr. Rhodes noticed Thomas in the doorway, however, he stopped singing. His face fell into dismay; clearly the sight of Thomas was not one Rhodes enjoyed.

He sat back up straight in his chair, allowing Cookie to climb on his shoulder. Glaring irritably at Thomas, Dr. Rhodes bitterly gestured for him to enter.

But suddenly Thomas felt rooted to the spot. How could he begin to say all that needed to be said?

“... What?” Dr. Rhodes demanded, all air of formality evaporated from between them. “Is there something you need, Thomas? I can’t imagine you came here to listen to my bird sing.”

Thomas looked down-  
_Look him in the eyes,_ Peter had said.

Thomas looked back up, staring at Dr. Rhodes dead on so that the man was slightly unnerved. He sat back in his swivel chair, waiting to see what Thomas would do or say.

“... For years, I thought I was a Barrow,” Thomas whispered. “And when they didn’t love me, it just became part of my identity. Everyone else's hatred hid inside me. When I lashed out, it was their own malice coming back to bite them. No one ever seemed to understand that though.”

Dr. Rhodes started, his mouth slightly slack jawed. Even Cookie was silent, glancing at her owner as if to say _“Are you hearing this?”._

“That’s all this is,” Thomas admitted. “I never got an identity save for the one that was pushed upon me, and when that was taken from me I didn’t know who I was anymore. And I guess I’m slightly afraid to find out-”

A lie.

“I’m petrified,” Thomas corrected himself with the truth. “Because if I fail at being a good person the second time, I don’t think I’ll get a third chance. I don’t think things work that way.”

For a moment, absolute silence hung in the office.  
Then, for whatever reason, Dr. Rhodes cautiously took his own pulse at the wrist, as if internally debating whether or not he was hallucinating this due to a stroke.

When it became clear it was not a stroke, Dr. Rhodes sat up slowly in his swivel chair and cautiously pulled out a manilla folder from one of his desk drawers. He opened it to the first page, and put pen to paper.

He never stopped staring at Thomas.  
Thomas could see the awe in the man’s eyes, the wariness but the hope as well.  
Above all, Thomas could see the man he’d loathed now for months. The actual man who’d wanted nothing more than to connect with him.

“You could be amazing,” Dr. Rhodes replied gently. “You could be a completely new person if you chose.”

“Or I could be worse,” Thomas said.

“Worse how?” Dr. Rhodes asked. “How would you personally define worse, in your own position?”

But Thomas had already seen the woes that lay before him. His mother weeping, his father glaring… Mary cut off from him. “I could make my mother cry. I could utterly ruin my relationship with my true father. I could fail everyone that I love.”

Dr. Rhodes nodded, weighing this options with care. “You could blow up a train station. You could die of polio. You could adopt a pet iguana. You could become a banker…. I’m just going off what you’re saying here, because really the options are limitless.”

There was no mockery in Dr. Rhodes’ eyes.

“You could make your mother smile,” Dr. Rhodes said. “You could have an incredible relationship with your father. You could amaze everyone who loves you. But in order to do that, you have to at first concede that it’s an option. Can you do that, Thomas?”

It was an honest question, and one that deserved an equally honest answer.

Thomas sat down in the visitor’s chair across from Dr. Rhodes, contemplating what he might say in return. In truth, he had no idea what to say to that.

“I don’t know how to respond,” Thomas said. Instead of pressing him harder, Dr. Rhodes took a moment to scribble down a paragraph or two.

Yet as Thomas opened his mouth to try and sum up some kind of response, he noted that there was a painting behind Dr. Rhodes’ desk of a a man atop a mountain range. He was staring out over the vast seas of mist and rock, clearly deciding where to go next.

And it made him think of the Turner.

“Why is the painting in the attic?” Thomas asked. Dr. Rhodes looked up, confused. “The Turner,” Thomas explained. “The one with the fishermen in the storm at night. Why did you hide it in the attic when it was so beautiful?”

Dr. Rhodes, unfortunately, was not the authority that Thomas wanted. “This isn’t my house,” Dr. Rhodes explained kindly. It was the first time he’d spoken to Thomas gently since November. “It belonged to Dr. Welkin’s family. They chose the decorations that got put out. I’d assume there are many beautiful things hidden around here that they’ve chosen to keep safe. They may have not liked looking at it.”

Thomas glanced down at his lap, wondering if it was all so simple. _I don’t like looking at it, so I get to banish it to the dark._

But Dr. Rhodes seemed to sense that there was more to Thomas’ question than the simple matter of a painting being liked.

“Or maybe, they are protecting it,” Dr. Rhodes said. Thomas looked back up, finding that the man wore a small but honest smile. “Maybe they feel that it’s too valuable to be out in public. Maybe they want to hide it from the world, not because they’re ashamed to own it but because they love it too much to let it get hurt.”

“Are we still talking about a painting?” Thomas mumbled, because he doubted the Welkins cared that much either way about art.

“I thought we were rather talking about you and your family,” Dr. Rhodes replied. So it seemed he was using some psychology to poke into Thomas’ underlying fears. “They’re desperate for you to be home. I’m a bit of a stone on your father’s back by this point… but as I’ve said before, I’d rather be a prick than a bad doctor.”

Heavens, he was committed to his job.

“I’m sorry I came onto you,” Thomas whispered. “I thought it would get on your nerves-”

“It actually just shocked me,” Dr. Rhodes explained. “Not that you’re inverted, I already knew that, but that you’d look to me for physical interaction. I’m sixty-four, so I don’t often receive attention from men half my age. My wife is blind, so we like to joke that it was the only way she’d consent to marry me.”

Dr. Rhodes was tickled at his own joke.

But Thomas didn’t want to talk about Dr. Rhodes’ blind wife, and Dr. Rhodes seemed to know it.

“... Ask,” Dr. Rhodes said, when Thomas sat in silence. “Whatever you’re afraid to ask, ask it.”

“What did Mr. Carson say to you?” Thomas asked. Dr. Rhodes nodded to himself, and flipped to the back of the manilla folder to a large section of heavy writing. It seemed that this folder was Thomas’, and that in the back Rhodes had logged away every phone call he’d received.

He was surprised to see a photo of himself hiding in the back, from his days as a footman. There, in his livery, he stood oily and smug next to a hapless William and an exhausted Carson. God, he’d been so sure then that the future was golden. Dr Rhodes pulled out the photograph and passed it over to Thomas so that he could see it was actually a collection. Underneath, there were two more photographs. One showed Thomas, older and wiser standing next to Jimmy, Alfred, and Carson… the final one just showed Thomas and Carson. Neither were happy to be standing next to the other.

The pain was showing on Thomas’ aged face. He was miles away from the oily youth in the first picture. It was like watching a movie in three slides.

He stared bitterly at the final photograph, noting that Carson seemed to be balling his fists as the concept of standing so close to someone he clearly despised.

“... Carson,” Dr. Rhodes murmured. “Hurt you deeply, didn’t he Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, unable to speak on the subject without his throat closing up.

“I generally speak with the families of patients to get their backstory, but you were a different case. For obvious reasons, the one to speak to was Mr. Carson.. And he certainly had a lot to say.”

Oh, Thomas could only imagine.

“Thomas, please look at me,” Dr. Rhodes asked. Thomas dared to glance up with burning eyes, only to find that Dr. Rhodes was waiting for him with a calm and understanding gaze.

There was no pity, only empathy. It helped, even if only a little.

“Mr. Carson is unable to understand your inversion,” Dr. Rhodes explained. “It’s hardly an excuse, to simply say that Carson is of an older generation. More than likely, Carson simply does not like change. You represent a beautiful changing future, and that’s something which frightens him. He longs for the past. Nathaniel Barrow was the man you thought was your father, and he treated you viciously. When he became a footman at Downton Abbey, you saw Carson as the father you never got to have. Yet once again, he was displeased. Carson admitted to me that he rather bullied you by the end of it. That he felt terribly guilty, because you attempted suicide last July. He claimed that he didn’t think before then that you had a heart, but that he knew now he was wrong.”

Thomas looked away, burned.

“A heart,” He choked out the word. “How can I not when it hurts so much?”

“That’s precisely what I told him,” Rhodes replied in kind. “And I can assure you I spent a good half hour chewing his ear off on the phone. I do believe I traumatized him from the affair, or so your father jokingly claims. Apparently he’s nervous to pick up the phone when it rings in case it’s me calling.”

That was a very small comfort, compared to all the misery he felt.

“You didn’t deserve it,” Dr. Rhodes said.

Maybe not, but he’d still gotten it all the same-

“Say it.”  
Thomas looked up, confused, to find Dr. Rhodes staring at him intently.

“Say you didn’t deserve it,” He ordered.

“... I didn’t deserve it,” Thomas repeated the words, but they rang hollow within him.

“Say it and mean it,” Dr. Rhodes said.

He thought of Peter, and all the kindness he’d shown him. Of Baxter, Andy, Jimmy, and Sybil.  
Of the day he’d wanted to die, but had been forced to live.

“I didn’t deserve it,” Thomas choked out. If a trickle of a tear fell down his cheek, he did not acknowledge it. Honesty came in many forms, after all.

He closed his eyes and two more tears slipped out. Dr. Rhodes offered him a handkerchief, which Thomas took with shaking hands to clear his eyes. He handed the sodden cloth back, suddenly unable to meet the man’s eyes.

“Can we stop for the day?” Thomas croaked. “I want to lay down.”

“Of course,” Dr. Rhodes put up Thomas’ folder at once, recapping his pen to put it back in his breast pocket.

“Can I come back tomorrow?” Thomas asked.

“You can,” Dr. Rhodes opened his appointment book, scanning for an hour that he would be free. “I’ll make sure I’m free. What time?”

“What time works for you?”

“I’ll stay the night tonight. Let’s meet tomorrow after breakfast. I want to talk to you more about Carson, if that’s alright. Try to gather your thoughts about him, if you can.”

Thomas knew that Dr. Rhodes would be liable to call his family after this incident: “Please…” He whispered, shaking his head. “Please don’t tell Carson what you’ve said. What I’ve said. Please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dr. Rhodes assured him with a gentle smile.  
Thomas rose up from his chair.

“Thank you, come again!” Cookie squawked her same old line.

Yet as Thomas took the door in hand, Dr. Rhodes called him back. “Thomas?”

He looked over his shoulder. Dr. Rhodes looked ready to deflate into his swivel chair from all the lifted weight of his burdens.

“... Thank you for this,” Dr. Rhodes said. “It means more to me than you know.”

Thomas nodded, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a little side note, I slipped an art joke into this chapter. Turner's [Fishermen at Sea](https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/turner-fishermen-at-sea-t01585) in real life actually did wind up at the National Gallery of British Art. It was later renamed into the Tate Gallery in 1932. So Peter was quite right in insisting it didn't belong in an attic. 
> 
> It also actually did sell for ten pounds the first time it was sold. Can you imagine?


	10. A Shift in Fortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Peter go their respective ways, only to wind back up together again in a sudden twist of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no warnings for this chapter. We're going to start moving into the second phase of this fanfiction... most of the bad stuff is out of the way. Now we're into the slow burn baby! 
> 
> Also, with the release of the trailer, I make this vow: If Fellowes fucks up with Thomas, I swear I will write fanfiction to amend it. You have my word of honor.

After Thomas’ initial visit to Dr. Rhodes, words began to fall like a water from his mouth. His soul was a broken cup, it could hold nothing till it had all been spilt and reforged. Like broken jigsaw pieces on a dirty floor, Dr. Rhodes examined the shards of Thomas’ past and saw not a problem to be fixed but a solution to be made. Everything made sense, when laid out by Dr. Rhodes. Like the dregs of a sea being traced back to rivers, every sorrow that had formed Thomas into a man came from a terror in the eyes of a boy.

And the more that Dr. Rhodes learned, the more that Thomas could explain.

The month of January slid by, and though the days did not become warmer there was a gentle heat in Thomas’ bones that had not been there since the days of Jimmy Kent. He didn’t know if it came from Dr. Rhodes or Peter, but it was long since needed. He’d run out of energy, trying to live on spite and malice. He needed something more substantial, something that didn’t bite him back when pressed.

Peter didn’t bite… Peter didn’t bite at all.  
His mouth was much too kind for that.

It felt like Thomas was stealing something away from the world, by hiding Peter in the attic. After living in the snows of Sussex, Peter was more than happy to hide away from the world; at the same time, he hid nothing (and everything) from Thomas. Thomas still did not know who Peter truly was. He knew the man was a painter and that he was honest and kind… besides that, Peter remained a mystery. It was like one of Thomas’ dreams had come to life; like some creature from the light had drifted down into his world of darkness to help him back up. So many times in Thomas’ life, he’d sworn himself in the company of demons. Not since the days of his sister Sybil had he imagined he was instead in the company of an angel. But Peter could be nothing but. He was far too good to be human, far too wise to be mortal.

In the company of an angel, Thomas sat by the light of a lone candle eating the remnants of a chicken pot pie. He’d snuck several helpings from dinner and had instead decided to eat with Peter. This was their nighttime routine, with Thomas declining to eat in the common rooms. It was much better, much more calming for him to talk to Peter instead and tell him all that he’d told Dr. Rhodes.

Dr. Rhodes was a good doctor, but he wasn’t nearly as good as Peter.

“So where will you go?” Thomas asked. Peter contemplated the answer in silence, using the moment to carefully pick at his teeth.

Thomas’ stay at Rustington had officially come to a close. It was shocking to imagine, particularly in lieu of November, but Dr. Rhodes was certain that Thomas had ‘crossed the hump’, whatever that meant. Tomorrow, Thomas was to return to Downton via a train that would take him to York. This naturally meant that Peter would have to find his own way too, for without Thomas bringing him food there would be no way for him to stay comfortably in the attics. This meant returning to the wilderness and snows, neither of which pleased either party.

“Well…” Peter let out a suffering noise of mild defeat. “I’ve been thinking on that, and I’ve decided my best bet is to look to my cousin. You inspired me, you know-?”

At this, Peter gave him a wink.

“Me inspire you?” Thomas teased, “My how the tables have turned.”

“Well I wrote to him in any sense,” Peter continued, picking at a chicken bone that had somehow found its way into the pie. “He recently got married, or so he tells me, but he should be back from his honeymoon any day now. I’m going to ask him for help. In our youth, he and I were always close. He’s a good man, and from what I hear his bride’s not too shabby either in the emotional department. Maybe they’ll take pity on me.”

“Well, write to me too,” Thomas urged him. “You can send word through Rustington. They forward mail for a while after a client leaves.”

“So I shall,” Peter promised.

But there was more to this meeting than shared pieces of pot pie and promises of letters. Unbeknownst to Peter, Thomas had decided to offer him a parting gift of more than sentimental tastes. It was a crime against art, but Thomas had taken a knife to Turner’s “Fishermen at Sea” pulling it free from its backing so that the canvas could be rolled into a fine tube.

He was probably mad to give a homeless man a painting worth thousands of pounds… but what was life without a little danger?

“I have something for you,” Thomas said. Peter wiped his hands clean on the edge of his borrowed mattress, watching as Thomas fetched the rolled up Turner from where he’d stowed it behind an unused bookcase. As he returned, Peter reached out to take the rolled up canvas with poorly suppressed glee.

“A magic roll of parchment!” Peter teased, only to pause when he unfurled it and saw the canvas for what it was.

He snorted, shocked at Thomas’ audacity, then looked up at Thomas with amazement.

“... You unframed a Turner,” Peter said. “You’re mental, you know that.”

Thomas could not help the goofy grin spreading across his face; how very undignified.

“Figured you might like it,” He said, gently.

“Like it?” Peter repeated incredulous, “I’m a hobo with a painting worth thousands of dollars.”

“So sell it,” Thomas said.

“Never,” Peter shook his head, looking down at the Turner to stroke it lovingly. Thomas sat down beside him on the mattress, knees curled up to his chest as Peter carefully tucked the Turner back into a tight tube roll.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Peter said. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

He ought to have let it end there. To simply accept Peter’s compliment and take it for what it was… a homeless man showing gratitude. But Peter had been so much more to Thomas than just a charity case. It had been Peter to remind him that goodness was not a pedestal to remain upon but a path to walk. A day by day balance that could shift depending upon what life threw at you. You were not born ‘good’ or ‘bad’; Peter had taught him that.

“I’ll treasure you,” Thomas whispered. Peter paused; he did not jump in shock, nor become suspicious. Instead, he simply watched Thomas and waited to see what he did. Peter assumed nothing, save for Thomas’ goodness.

He was the only one that did.

“You gave me the courage to say what needed to be said,” Thomas explained. “And if I hadn’t, I’d never have spoken to Dr. Rhodes, so thank you.”

For a moment, Peter absorbed Thomas’ gratitude; he didn’t seem happy though, and Thomas feared he might have said too much. Had his inverted nature caused him to grow too attached to Peter?

“... I’ll never see you again,” Peter mumbled. “I’m almost certain of this.” He looked to Thomas again, a strange determination in his lovely brown eyes. “So I’ll say this now, and then goodnight. Your soul is like this painting-” he gestured with the rolled Turner. “And I wish to god I had the means to know you better.”

Why was Thomas’ heart suddenly beginning to pound in his breast?  
He flushed looking down at his feet which were still tucked beneath his knees. His soul was like a painting? What did that mean? Was it a sign of friendship or…

Peter scoffed at himself, rolling his eyes as if he found his own behaviour irritating.  
“I shouldn't have said that,” Peter muttered. “I apologize-”

“Don’t,” Thomas cut him off. Peter was slightly taken aback. Clearly he’d not been expecting Thomas to be so upbeat about the whole affair.

In a show of good faith, Thomas reached out and gently took Peter’s hand in his own. It was heavily calloused from time spent outdoors. In that moment, Thomas suddenly wished he could go with Peter. That they could live in the woods together and have more grand adventures.

“Goodbye Peter,” Thomas mumbled. “I’ll never forget you.”

He squeezed Peter’s hand, and rose up from the bed. Walking across the attic, Thomas felt terribly morose all of a sudden.

As he reached the door, Thomas heard Peter’s reply over his shoulder: “Goodbye Thomas. Thanks for the masterpieces.”

It took him till he got back to his own bedroom to realize Peter had said ‘masterpieces’.

Plural… but why?

 

~*~

 

 

The next morning dawned bright and clear. When Thomas went up to the attic to see if Peter was still hiding, he found it abandoned. Both Peter and the Turner were gone, with no trace of either having been there. Even the borrowed mattress was tucked neatly back into its original spot. He felt oddly let down, though honestly he’d known from the get-go that Peter would never be able to stay permanently. It was against his nature as a wanderer, and if his cousin was as good natured as he claimed then he needed to get going to see if he could find a new source of charity.

Thomas imagined Peter’s cousin being some kind of trapper living in the southern woods. Perhaps he’d end up living off the woods even while his cousin gave him fresh meat and new woolen blankets. It was an oddly romantic image; would Peter hang up the Turner inside a cave? Maybe he would sleep with it like a blanket, safe beneath a sea of black churning waves.

Re packing his bags felt like a blessing, and heading for the front door of Rustington with the knowledge that he would not have to return was the holy rapture. The nurses were polite enough to holds his bags and open the door for him; outside he found the sun utterly blinding. The snow was still heavy upon the ground, but was slowly beginning to thaw with the expectant return of spring. A car had been offered to take Thomas to the train station. It stood waiting in front of the house, gleaming to him like a golden chariot.

He’d thought his departure from this place impossible until a few weeks ago. Now he was sailing away. Even though he’d had to say goodbye to Peter, it would be worth it to return home to the people that he loved.

Dr. Rhodes was waiting with a gentle smile.

He’d offered to see Thomas off, a sort of final farewell between the two of them. He’d hated the man, loathed him even, but now Thomas felt oddly fond of him. Dr. Rhodes was many things (annoying, holier than thou), but he was still a good doctor.

“So this is it,” Dr. Rhodes said. A chauffeur took up Thomas’ bags from the nurse to load it on the back of the motorcar.

“This is it,” Thomas agreed.

“The good news is, you’ve only missed one wedding, one Christmas, and one New Years,” Dr. Rhodes said. “I want you to call me once a week. Remember, Sundays at seven.”

Sunday, seven, both started with ‘s’. Thomas was certain he could handle that much.

“I will,” Thomas promised.

“And I also want you to talk to Mr. Carson,” Dr. Rhodes said. “You need to,” there was a soft, pining quality to the man’s voice that Thomas did not like.

This was a little more difficult. He didn’t want to Carson, and frankly didn’t plan on it, but knew that Dr. Rhodes was right. “I’ll try,” Thomas said; it felt like the most wishy washy version of a ‘yes’ that he could manage. “It may take a while. Honestly, I just want to go home.”

Dr. Rhodes looked at his pocket watch, minded the time, and then stuck out his hand for Thomas to shake. Thomas did so; Dr. Rhodes’ grip was warm and dry in his hand. “Goodbye, Thomas,” Dr. Rhodes said. “And good luck. I’m rather fond of you, even if you did try to tempt me with sodomy.”

“You’re not my type,” Thomas said, for fucking a man close to his father’s age just made his skin crawl.

“What a coincidence,” Dr. Rhodes teased, “I agree.”

Thomas let go of Dr. Rhodes’ hand, and left for the car. Sliding into the warm leather backseat, Thomas could not help but smile even as the chauffeur shut the door and started up the car engine.

In a matter of minutes, they were gone, heading back down the drive towards the Rustington village station.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The train ride from West Sussex to North Yorkshire took around half a day, with Thomas having to content himself by reading books. With half an hour to go, Thomas’ leg started jiggling incessantly. In an effort to keep himself from losing his mind, Thomas got up and began to walk from compartment to compartment. It was endearing to witness families relaxing with one another. Soon, he would be the same, back in the only home he had ever known. He had been honest with Mrs. Hughes last year when he’d told her Downton was the only place he’d ever truly laid down roots. As much pain as the place had brought him, Thomas still wanted to return to it. It offered him comfort and protection in a world that had repeatedly denied him both.

The train docked at the Downton station at four in the afternoon. Thomas deboarded, vaslie in hand, onto a rather small and dingy platform where no one else was waiting. At first, Thomas felt nervous that his family did not want to see him until he noticed that the Grantham motorcar was waiting out front. The chauffeur was standing abreast of the car, hat in hand, and opened the door for Thomas when he approached.

“Lord Downton,” the chauffeur took his valise, “It’s good to have you home.”

“Thank you,” Thomas could not even remember the man’s name. He felt like a soup upturned, with all the contents of his soul spilling forth. Everything chunky, everything important, had been left in the bottom from a lack of stirring. Now, he was starting to remember everything; how tiny the village was, how beautifully green the trees were.

Climbing into the motorcar, Thomas’ heart began to pick up its pace. It was like the organ knew it was close to home.

The village was unchanged, though snow lay heavy upon the ground. In West Sussex, the snow had been slightly lighter than usual and intermittent with frigid rain. In the north, however, there was always snow during the month of February. It took until about April for spring to truly set in. Inevitably, Thomas’ thoughts were starting to turn back to Peter who would be forced outside again. Where would he go until his cousin returned home? Maybe he would be able to sneak inside the man’s house and simply wait there? Suddenly Thomas wanted to take up a new book on living rough in the wild. Maybe he could find a book in his father’s study regarding homesteading in a place like British Columbia.

It was all terribly romantic, save for eating rat and sleeping on snow.

When he saw Downton Abbey rising over the mound, Thomas’ heart beat faster. It was tall and glistening, with snow shining from the tips of its creamy marble peaks. They pulled into the front gravel drive, freshly raked clear of snow, and Thomas was delighted to see a long string of people waiting for him on the front drive.

They had not been ashamed of him; they’d simply been too cold to travel. Now they were waiting for him at the front, his whole family sans Edith; even Carson and Mrs. Hughes were there. As the car pulled around front and slid into a smooth stop, Thomas felt his fingers tremble with anticipation. His mother was there, just as beautiful and warm as he remembered. In a cream long sleeved dress, she looked like a snow fairy. Mary was there as well, her hair neatly bobbed and her face in an ear splitting grin. Even his father seemed pleased, though he was more subdued than the rest of his family. The Dowager’s appearance was a bit of a surprise, but she was in good spirits. She leaned heavily upon her ivory cane, her withered fingers like the claw of some ancient eagle as they clasped onto the head.

Carson strode forward and took the door in hand, opening it so that Thomas could slide out.

He did so with baited breath, well aware that the last time he’d seen his family had been in November with dried vomit upon his lips. He looked at them all, each face so familiar and beautiful, and wished he could spend a year apologizing. How could he make them understand the depths of his shame?

But he wasn’t given a chance to apologize. Before he could open his mouth and explain that he’d been a fool, Mary rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck.

Her weight was solid and warm against him, a beautiful reminder that he was indeed home again.

“Thomas-” She said his word like a cheer of victory, “I’m so glad you’re home!”

“Hello Mary-” Thomas choked out, his voice slightly strangled by Mary leaning into his windpipe. She pulled back, stepping aside so that their mother could view him properly next. Thomas was shocked to find Cora in tears.

“Oh, my baby-” The words were muddled in her mouth, but her grip was strong and true. Cora embraced him tightly, shorter than Mary but just as fierce as she. Yet she pulled back quicker only to place her hands upon Thomas’ cheeks. “Oh thank god you’re well. Look at you…” She stroked her thumbs across his sharp cheekbones. “You look so much better, thank god.”

She looked over her shoulder at Robert, who was regarding Thomas with a timid if somber stare. He wanted to embrace Thomas, but was holding back… why? Was it because he was a man?

Robert extended his hand for Thomas to shake, but Thomas batted it aside to instead embrace his father as tightly as he could. Robert was taken aback.

“I’m so sorry-” Thomas managed to say.

“Don’t be sorry for a single thing,” Robert replied. Was it Thomas’ imagination or did his father sound more emotional than normal. As Thomas drew back, he did not know what to expect in his father’s eyes. Hope? Disappointment? Subdued anger?

Instead, Robert Crawley shone with a relief that none could deny. Like Cora, he reached up and placed his hands upon Thomas’ cheeks. For a moment there was silence as the two men registered one another. All the anger, all the grief that Thomas had felt for months and months seemed to wash away from him. He had been unable to save Philip, unable to explain to his family just why Philip needed to be saved…

But still, he did not blame them. He blamed himself.

“... I didn’t know how to tell you, how much I was grieving-” But Thomas’ words were cut off as his father held him again. This time, his grip was tighter and Thomas’ chin was pressed against Robert’s shoulder.

“We’ll talk about this more in private, but for now be content at heart,” Robert murmured in his ear. “You’re home, and that’s exactly where the Duke would want you to be.”

Somehow, Thomas could not help but agree.

When they let go for a second time, Thomas was finally able to register his grandmother’s presence. Though she could not hold him tightly like her son, she was still grateful to have him home. He embraced her as gently as he could, stooping low to press a chaste kiss to her withered and wrinkled cheek.

“Easy-” She teased, “I’m a bit like fine china at this stage in my life.” Thomas pulled back, allowing her to pat carefully upon his breast with her gloved hand. She fastidiously plucked a stray bit of string from his vest lining.

“You look much better,” She praised. “Much healthier.”

This left only Tom Branson, who was slightly tense at Mary’s side. By her insistence alone, he offered his hand for Thomas to take. Their shake was a small one, hardly friendly.

“Welcome home,” Tom said. Thomas tried to imagine that he meant it, but knew deep down it was just a formality. Mary gave Tom a reproachful glance.

Yet even as Thomas opened his mouth to proclaim that Downton Abbey was like a dream, he was taken aback by a sudden loud nickering noise from the direction of the stables. He craned his neck, spotting Arion charging back and forth around the outer perimeter of the coral. He’d spotted Thomas and was pointedly furious.

“Oh-!” Thomas could not believe his stupidity. “My baby!”

Without another word, Thomas left his family to trot at a quick pace down the slippery slopes of the frozen knoll. The closer he got to Arion, the more angry that Arion got. He even kicked over a water barrel meant for collecting rain water from the gutters of the barn.

“Thomas where are you going?” He heard Mary complain loudly over his shoulder. His family was following him, desperately trying to figure out why he was so determined to get to the coral.

Thomas had to be cautious mounting the frozen wooden links which locked in the horses; in the ice a slip could be dangerous. As he hauled himself into the coral, Arion came charging up with a gleaming look in his eye.

Thomas flung his arms open wide, only to be shocked when Arion smacked right into him face first. With his neck low, the mighty beast pressed himself hard against Thomas so that he was slammed back into the coral wall and lifted clean off the ground.

“Ay-!” Thomas choked out, all the air rammed from his lungs. “Alright, alright, I get it-”  
But clearly Arion did not think Thomas ‘got it’, because instead of backing off the horse lifted his head even more so that suddenly Thomas was a good foot off the ground dangling from Arion’s neck.

“Oh- I love you too-” Thomas coughed. Arion kept snorting, yanking his head up and down as if nodding emphatically. “I love you, I love you, I love you-”

Finally, perhaps exhausted by the weight of Thomas upon his neck, Arion sat Thomas back down in the snow. Able to at last view his steed clearly, Thomas stroked Arion’s beautiful cheeks only to press a loving kiss to Arion’s wet black nose. Arion let out a snort, so that hot steam filled Thomas’ vision momentarily.

He leaned forward, holding Arion even tighter about the neck.  
He did not know what was more glorious: to be back home, or to be back with Arion.

Behind him, his family watched with subdued humor. Mary, in particular, found it all very queer.

“That’s more of a reunion than we got,” She muttered to no one in particular.

 

 

~*~

 

  
It was an oddly beautiful thing, to sit with his family and take tea. He’d been in this room a hundred times, the pink parlor that his mother so liked to take company in. He’d served tea from every corner, he’d stared out the window for hours wondering when he might have a moment of freedom. But now, back from Rustington, Thomas found himself suddenly captivated by every small detail that he saw. When had the art become so lovely? When had the hearth been so gentle and warm?

It was like Downton had spread her arms open to him, just as he’d done for Arion.  
And speaking of which, there was a stain on his vest from Arion’s muzzle.

“You astound me-” Robert was mystified by Thomas’ story of Peter and the Turner he’d taken off its frame. “A Turner? You took a Turner out of it’s frame?”

But he was laughing, amazed even. It felt beautiful to share Peter’s story with his family. To reveal to them that a man had existed who had helped Thomas so utterly, understood him so completely. It made Peter all that more real to Thomas, less of a dream and more of a distant memory.

Like a ghost, slowly fading into the white woods of a snowy evening.

“Well, he was a painter,” Thomas shrugged, aware of how silly he’d been to do such a shocking thing. “And he obviously appreciated it much more than the others did. So I thought… why not?”

“My god, Thomas-” Robert laughed outright now, looking to Cora who shrugged her shoulders with a tiny smile. “You have committed a heinous art crime.”

The family shared a chuckle at this. Robert set his finished tea aside, content with the world. “We shall have to keep it a secret, all of us.”

“I find it charming,” Cora said. She was in too much of a good mood to think more about Thomas’ silliness.

“Which one?” Robert asked Thomas.

“Fishermen at Sea,” Thomas replied. Robert let out a whimsical sigh of knowing.

“A good one, indeed,” Robert praised. “I saw it once in my youth. I pray that he might take good care of it.”

 

“I’m sure he’ll treasure it forever,” Cora promised. “I saw it too when I came over from America, it was absolutely stunning, but back then no one looked twice at Turner. Poor man.”

“Well you can’t always be a DaVinci in your own lifetime,” The Dowager said. Despite sitting in a rigidly backed armchair by the fire, she still held tight to the head of her cane.

“How are Edith and Bertie?” Thomas asked.

“Returning home from Greece as we speak,” Mary said. “They’ll be here in two days time, as a matter of fact. They’ve been having a whale of a time, apparently.”

“I’m glad,” Thomas said. If anyone deserved a happy honeymoon, it was his little sister. “Marigold?”

“In Hexam,” Mary replied, “With her new grandmama, and as pleased as punch. She’s their little princess.”

“Good,” Thomas smiled into his tea. Marigold was hardly high maintenance like George, but she still deserved all the best in the world.

“What did Dr. Rhodes say when you left?” Cora asked. Thomas paused, noting that Carson was standing in the corner of the room; even if his face was vacant Thomas knew the man was listening intently.

“I’m to call him on Sundays at seven each week,” Thomas said.

“We’ll happily make room for that,” Robert looked to Carson, who subtly nodded in understanding. After all, it was Carson who had to arrange the calls.

“Anything else?” Cora asked.

“... He wants me to follow up on a few things, but besides that he feels I’m doing okay. It’s a work in progress.” Thomas avoided saying more by taking yet another sip of tea. His savior came in the form of his grandmother, who could probably sense that Thomas had more to say but was afraid to.

“Well, can anyone truly say there is a permanent state of self?” She wondered. “You will always be changing. That’s only natural.”

If there was anyone in the family whom Thomas still did not fully understand, it was his grandmother. She seemed to live in a world separate from theirs, where footmen liveries were still adorned with flourishing insignias and balls were held every other Saturday. Curious as to what she would think, Thomas timidly asked her the question he’d been dying to for days.

“And… you don’t mind?” He asked her. “All the things I did in November? The thing with Philip?”

The Dowager debated this for a moment, the loose skin on her neck wobbling as her wrinkled fingers tightened a bit upon her cane. “Well…” She paused, clearly answering honestly. “Do I mind?” she gave an involuntary sigh. “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s in the past. And you’ve more than paid for any sin that society could place upon you.”

Maybe so.

“Are you still going to try and make me marry Elizabeth Ringwall?” Thomas mumbled.

But the Dowager just clucked and looked to Robert. In turn, her son rolled his eyes.

“There was a time when I thought of it, I confess. But I told Adam Ringwall the truth when the rumors starting circling. Frankly… I don’t think it would be right for either of you, now.”

“They’ll come around,” Cora promised. Robert gave a sad smile at this; clearly things had happened in Thomas’ absence. Rumors for a servant were rather amusing, like the Sunday paper, but to a family like Thomas’ they could spell absolute ruin. He wondered what would become of him now?

“What will we do?” Thomas feared. “Will the rumors ruin us-?”

“Oh, don’t be silly-” the Dowager even reached out and patted him carefully upon his knee. “The only thing the rumors did is ruin your chances of a marriage proposal… and let’s be honest we weren’t exactly thrilled about that, were we?”

Well, that at least was better than he’d initially assumed.

“Some rumors are harsh, some are not,” Mary said. “We mostly just field them out and ignore the others.”

“Rumors fade in time,” The Dowager added. “The trick is to act like a butterfly floating upon a cloud; my mother once told me this-” she even allowed her hand to tremble in mid-air like a dainty butterfly that could tumble in one strong breeze. “Nothing touches you. Nothing troubles you. In the end, it all goes quiet.”

Thomas supposed he could do that. “Dr. Rhodes thinks I should take up a hobby…. So I was wondering something-” At this, he looked to Robert.

“Yes?”

“I think I want to try riding in a horse race, if possible.” Thomas said.

A ripple of amusement and disbelief floated through the room. Even Carson looked about, curious.

“A horse race?” Robert repeated. It was as if Thomas had proclaimed he wanted to take up ballet.

“Yes.”

“Crikey,” Robert even stood to pace a bit, warming himself nearer the fire. “That’s a bit sudden.”

“Not really,” Thomas admitted, for he’d always felt most at peace astride Arion. “You just haven’t known.”

For a moment, Robert pondered it. He stared into his family hearth, stroking his chin contemplatively. “Let me look into it,” Robert finally said. “You’re not trained, and if you’re going to ride before the public you’ll have to be.”

Thomas looked down into his empty tea cup, remembering Peter and how wonderful he’d been. How honest. How open.

“... I’m tired of being an empty vase,” Thomas whispered. “If I can’t have love, I must have something in my life to define me. To give me reason.”

Touched by his words, Cora reached out and tenderly took Thomas’ hand in her own. She squeezed it endearingly.

“I think we can manage that,” She promised.

And just like that, Thomas knew things would be alright.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Returning to life back at Downton was a beautiful if fragile thing. Every morning when Thomas woke in his own bed, he temporarily wondered if it was all some type of queer dream. Every meal he shared with his family felt like a blessing. Running about in the coral with Arion felt like he was chasing an angel, and he found himself laughing more than usual when Arion played tricks like kicking his feed bucket across the coral. Things felt better, even if nothing had truly changed, but there were moments when Thomas did feel an odd sort of somber fog fall upon him. Usually, it happened at night when he looked through his bedroom window out onto the snowy lawn. Without truly even registering it, Thomas would be looking at the horizon line where woods met grass. What was he expecting to see there? A slim smoke trail? A tiny fire with a rat over it?

Unbidden, ghosts would walk the lawns of Downton Abbey. A homeless man with a priceless painting in his rucksack would wander from the forests and look up at Thomas with an endearing smile.

 _“Your soul is like a painting,”_ the ghost would whisper, _“And I wish to God I had the means to know you better.”_

And just like that, he’d vanish again.

Thomas told no one of these thoughts, for though he’d admitted to Peter’s existence Thomas still could not admit to himself that there was more to the story. That when Peter had spoken to him, a warmth had flooded his chest he hadn’t known possible.

That when Peter had told him that goodness was not a pinacle to reach, Thomas had felt good for the first time in his life.

In order to avoid these depressing thoughts, Thomas spent a great deal of time out in the coral with Arion. Arion was utterly delighted to have Thomas back, and for hours the pair of them road out across the snowy grounds till trails criss crossed and white had turned to dark slushy brown. In the cold months, Thomas was determined to pamper his closest companion. He had hot coals put in pans beneath Arion’s stall to warm the floorboards, and gave him hot baths with water that he boiled himself. Everyone else thought him silly, but to Thomas it was all a part of loving an animal that could not tend for itself. Arion was king, and Thomas was his attendant.

Two days after Thomas had returned home, he was out in the barn wrapping Arion in belted blankets. The sky was bright blue overhead, but the temperature was still frigid. As such, Thomas was slightly surprised when he saw a figure leave through Downton’s front doors and start making its way down to the coral. At first, he thought it might be his father, but drew up short when he realized it was only Tom Branson.

What on earth did he want?

Yet even as Thomas figured that Tom would simply walk around the barn and leave him be, the man instead came up to the gate of the coral and entered.

Thomas paused, mid-buckling of Arion’s blankets. Arion snorted, pawing feverishly at the slushy ground beneath them. When Tom tried to get close, Arion nickered angrily.

Tom stopped, wisely holding back as Thomas took Arion by the bridal reigns.

“Easy-” Thomas murmured, resuming his blanketing. Arion snorted, furious to be asked to calm down.

“Nice day for it,” Tom said warily.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “It’s not safe to be this close to Arion and you know it.”

“Thought I’d come to visit,” Tom said. “Sometimes I get tired with all the talk of tradition and money. Figured you’d probably feel the same.”

Cautiously, Tom tried to approach again. Arion shifted, as if wanting to get in Tom’s face. Tom balked.

“Hey-!” Thomas snapped, jerking Arion back. “Easy, you tit. This is why you don’t have any friends, you drive everyone away. Be nice.”

Unwilling to accept he was in the wrong, Arion stamped one of his feet angrily.

“... Glad he likes you,” Tom mused. “He might have ended up in a glue factory otherwise, temperament like that.”

“He knows,” Thomas replied. But he was tired of this back and forth banter. Even if Tom was escaping the family, he had a hundred other places he could visit before coming to talk to Thomas. So why was he here?

“Why are you really here?” Thomas asked. “Let’s not pretend you and I are particularly close.”

“If you insist,” Tom said. “If you want the truth, I came out here to talk to you about just that.”

Thomas stopped fawning over Arion, taken aback. Tom wanted to talk about their lack of a friendship? Was he hallucinating?

“... I haven’t touched opium since November, so I know this can’t be a hallucination,” Thomas said. Tom scoffed.

“Look, if you want the full truth-”

“That would be nice.”

“Mary wants me to get closer to you. Be chummy like.”

“... Mary.” Thomas replied. “Why do I find that hard to believe.”

“Because you don’t know what I know,” Tom said. “What I’ve known since October.”

If there was one thing Thomas detested, it was being out of the loop on a secret. “And that is?”

Tom did not answer straight away. He was staring deep into Thomas’ eyes, obviously nervous about something. Thomas arched a finely pointed eyebrow.

“... That I’m in love with her.” Tom finally said. “That I’ve been with her since November. And that her happiness means the world to me. So what she wants, I’ll do.”

 

Tom was in love with Mary?  
They’d been together since November?

A sudden sour feeling rose up in Thomas’ chest that he hadn’t felt since the time of Bates and O’Brien.

“Christ, I’ll tell Bertie to watch out for Edith, shall I?” Thomas sneered, turning his back on Tom to instead begin brushing knots out of Arion’s silky black main.

“It’s not like that-!” Tom protested.

“Does it matter what it’s like?” Thomas demanded, still not turning to face Tom. “What do you care about my opinion on it? What do I honestly matter in all of this? You ran off with Sybil and now you’re going to try and do the same with Mary-”

“I’m not running anywhere,” Tom was growing angry, “And you know nothing about my relationship with Sybil-”

“I know that you left with her!” Thomas turned around, hotly facing down his opponent. Tom was taken aback at the sheer amount of anger in Thomas’ face. “I know that you left her in Ireland to run from the police. I know that when she got back here she was so swollen she could hardly walk! That she died carrying your babe into the world! I know that you and Matthew were right chummy when he was alive- what do you think he’d say now with you trying to make your moves on my twin sister? Eh?”

Tom looked ready to punch him. “Thank you…” he seethed through clenched teeth. “I forget how utterly punchable your smug face is-”

“Yeah? Well choke on it.” Thomas shot down. “I don’t have to like you running around with my twin sister.”

“You don’t deserve her love-” Tom shot out; Thomas could hear the heat in his voice. He was speaking from anger, not truth. “She fretted over you day and night when you were in that looney bin-”

“Oh you wish Rustington was a looney bin,” Dr. Rhodes’ words were coming back to him. “Never knew a looney bin to offer an aviary and swimming lessons.”

“Call it what you want, it’s a looney bin for rich people who can hide from the consequences of their actions,” Tom said. “You drug your family through hell for your own selfish reasons. And if you were still poor, you’d have been thrown in Gaol! You know it!”

“No,” Thomas said. Tom sneered, but Thomas cut him off. “If I were poor, I’d be dead. And you know it.”

“A silver lining to every cloud,” Tom muttered under his breath.

“I’ll be sure to tell Mary you said that,” Thomas took Arion by the reigns, thinking he would lead his horse back to the barn. Or maybe he ought to let Arion go, and just see if he’d trample Tom for the fun of it.

He turned back, almost letting go of Arion’s reigns. “As a matter of fact, I wonder if Arion agrees with you?” Thomas sneered. Tom went wight.

“Ey-” Tom took a step back, a hand out in caution. “Let’s talk about this like men, alright?”

“Oh I think I’ve heard enough talk,” Thomas sneered. Arion nickered, pawing at the ground once more. “I think Arion can speak for me-”

“Look, take it easy, that horse is a psychopath when you’re not handling it,” Tom said. “I didn’t mean to get so cross but you were out of line speaking about Sybil-”

“A silver lining to every cloud, is it?” Thomas demanded.

“I was wrong-”

“Boys!”

Both Tom and Thomas looked about, their momentary battle of wits put on hold at the sound of Mary’s voice. She was practically tripping over her two feet, running as quickly as she could down the slippery slopes of the lawn towards the coral. She looked both shocked and frightened.

“Mary?” Tom wondered.

“Oi, guess what he said about me-!” Thomas jerked a finger angrily at Tom.

But before Thomas and Tom could both start tattling on each other, they were cut off by Mary waving her hands emphatically. She silenced them both, her cheeks splotched pink from exertion.

“Later, later,” She begged. “You both need to come with me, right now.”

“What’s wrong?” Thomas could tell that something was amiss. She was nervous, and hardly anything rattled Mary at her age.

“I can’t explain,” She stumbled over her own words, “It’s just- It’s just too insane. Just come with me, both of you. Right now.”

Thomas and Tom shared a glance, both confused and wary.

Unsure of what else to do, Tom left the coral and Thomas finally released Arion to head after him. Free of Thomas’ hold, Arion reared, neighing angrily at Tom’s retreating back.

“Got it, got it-” Tom mumbled, stomping back up the slope with Mary in tow. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“You’ll get more than that next time!” Thomas warned. “I’ll open the gate, I mean it!”

“Thomas, not now!” Mary begged.

“Oh fine, but I still have to talk to you-”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Mary cried out, reaching the front door where Andy held it open. Only now did Thomas see there was a motorcar glistening in the driveway. Who had come to visit? “But later! Alright?”

Confused, Thomas followed sheepishly after his twin.

The three of them headed to the library with Mary leading the way. Thomas looked over his shoulder at Andy, silently gesturing for an explanation. Andy raised his hands in mute defense. Clearly he was just as mystified as everyone else.

Mary opened the library door only to reveal both Edith and Bertie back from their honeymoon, along with the rest of the family and Carson. So it seemed that this was the source of the motorcar in the front; but when had they gotten back? They hadn’t even taken off their hats and coats! Bertie looked…

Well, honestly, he looked terrified. Why?

“Edith!” Thomas was shocked when she ran to him; she embraced him tightly, even kissing him upon the cheek so that her lipstick left a stain there.

“Oh Thomas-” she hugged him again, unable to let him go. “Oh Thomas, I missed you so much.”

“Hey, it’s alright…” Thomas murmured. He patted her gently upon the back. “We’re all back home now, aren’t we-?”

“I wanted you there at my wedding,” Edith blubbered. Was she crying? Thomas’ couldn’t tell with her face pressed to his chest. “I begged but Papa couldn’t convince the doctor-”

“Well you can get married again, if you like,” Thomas tried to joke. “We could do a whole new ceremony-”

“Don’t tease-” Edith drew back; Thomas was touched to see her wipe away moisture from her eyes. “Not when the day’s been so wretched.”

“Why has it been wretched?” Thomas urged. “Tell me who I have to kill and I’ll do it.”

Edith scoffed, a tiny smile at the corner of her pretty pink mouth.

“It’s not that simple, Thomas,” She said. Judging by the look on Bertie’s face, he had little choice but to take her on her word.

“Thomas,” Edith toyed with her hands, her nerves showing in the tips of her fingers. “Something insane has happened and I don’t know what to do.”

Bertie spoke up with a voice like a croak, “I don’t know whether to be overjoyed or not, and I’m ashamed to admit it.”

“Start from the beginning,” Robert urged. “You’re talking like mad.”

Bertie looked to Carson, who so far had been watching from the perimeters silently. “Might I have a whiskey, sir?”

“Certainly, my lord,” Carson answered smoothly, pouring Bertie a whiskey in a heavy crystal glass. Thomas noted in amazement that when Bertie drank it, he did not stop till he’d finished.

He didn’t want a drink. He needed one.

 

Robert watched his son in law, disturbed.

“Bertie, what on earth has happened?” Thomas demanded, “You just chugged whiskey like it was tea. Why are you so upset?”

Bertie sat down on the sofa, but then in an odd moment beckoned for Thomas silently to follow him. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas sat down next to Bertie on the sofa and waited to see what the man would say.

“...My cousin…” Bertie’s voice was now a hoarse whisper from the sting of alcohol. “The original Marquess of Hexam… Peter Pelham.”

“The one who died in Tangiers?” Tom asked.  
Bertie stared hollowly at the crackling library hearth.

When her husband did not answer, Edith finally did.  
“He’s not dead,” Edith whispered. Mary spluttered in shock.

“What?” Mary demanded, thunderstruck.

“You’re joking,” Cora scoffed.

 _Holy shit, and I thought I had problems,_ Thomas thought; unbidden by him, his lips had turned into a tight ‘o’ shape of surprise. Robert mirrored his expression.

“I- I don’t know what to say,” Bertie swallowed, then silently bade Carson for more whiskey. Carson poured it at once, his face grave with concern. “I was in port and Edith and I were having lunch… and then I received a letter. It was from him. He was asking for help, saying that he’d lied about his death to avoid returning to England. He hadn’t wanted to get married, and had hated pretending to be ‘normal’.” Bertie made quotations about the word. “I didn’t believe it, I thought it was a hoax. But then Peter ended the letter by saying he was close. In London even. And asked to meet. So I decided why not? The fraud couldn’t fool me in person. I thought surely…”

Bertie shook his head.

“... And it wasn’t a hoax,” Thomas finished for him.

“No,” Bertie shook his head again, and downed his second whiskey. “It’s him. I know it’s him. I’d know him from a crowd of a thousand men. My god, I don’t know what I’m going to do. He’s begged me not to tell our family he’s alive, but he’s penniless and has nowhere to go. He’s starving on the streets.”

Bertie looked to Thomas, tears sparkling in his brown eyes. Why did they seem so familiar to him in that moment?

“What do I do?” Bertie begged. “If I admit he’s alive, then I must relinquish my title, and what do I have then for my wife and children? If I don’t admit he’s alive, he starved in the streets! My cousin, my dearest friend… I can’t bear the thought.” Bertie looked away, ashamed. “Help me, Thomas. You’re the smartest man I know.”

“That is not a good thing,” Thomas muttered under his breath. “I don’t know what to tell you, Bertie. I mean… I don’t even know your cousin-”

“Bring him here,” Mary urged.

“Here?” Edith repeated. Mary nodded emphatically.

“Why not,” She said. “We wouldn’t have to tell Bertie’s family, and we’d know the marquess was safe. You could decide what to do and not worry about whether or not he’s starving. Papa?”

She looked to Robert, but found her father less that certain. Where Mary was determined, Robert was cautious. It was a mark of his age, and his experiences with shady characters in the past.

“You’re certain it’s him?” Robert asked Bertie. “Certain beyond all shadows of all doubts?”

“Robert, he was my closest childhood companion,” Bertie replied, bitter and softly. “ I asked him things that only Peter would know. He answered without flaw or fail. I cannot deny who he is or what it means.”

This was not the answer that Robert obviously wanted to hear. “But why would he lie about something like that thought?” he paced back and forth, disturbed. “To fake his own death. It’s shocking!”

“It’s awful,” Cora agreed.

But Thomas knew what it was to be labeled as ‘abnormal’ and hated by society. He put himself in Peter’s shoes, and suddenly saw the world for what it was. If he had had money, he would have run away. Of this, he was certain.

“If you have nothing to live for in England, nothing to return to, why not?” Thomas said. Cora looked hurt and reproachful, as if Thomas himself had insisted he wanted to run away.

 _It must be because of Rustington,_ he thought.

“What are you saying?” Cora demanded. “He had a family that loved him-”

“No, mum, he didn’t,” Thomas warned her. “They hated him. That’s what Bertie’s saying.”

“It’s true,” Bertie backed him up at once. “They didn’t see the point of him. They didn’t miss him when he was pronounced dead.

“Tangiers offered Peter release,” Thomas said. “But money eventually forced him back. When you think about it, it’s awful.” Thomas wondered where the man was now. To imagine, two homeless Peter’s wandering the world. Perhaps they’d run into one another.

“He’s like you,” Bertie said, looking to Thomas with woeful eyes.

“You’ve said,” Thomas did not feel comfortable speaking out loud about his inverted sexuality, but Bertie would never wish him ill.

“I thought perhaps you might speak with him, and offer him counsel,” Bertie said. “He’d appreciate it coming from you.”

“What kind of counsel could I offer?” Thomas said. “While you were in Greece I was in a looney bin-”

“Rustington is not a looney bin,” Robert assured him.

“Oh really?” Thomas looked up at Tom, who was suddenly quite pink in the face. “Funny… I was told differently.”

Mary looked at Tom, noticed the color in his cheeks, and rolled her eyes petulantly.  
“Not now, boys,” she muttered irritably.

“Look-” Thomas turned to Bertie, frank with the facts. “I won’t hide this from you. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not exactly the world’s best roll model. I had a shite reputation downstairs, and frankly upstairs all I’ve done is fall in with Dukes and get addicted to opium. I’m hardly a priest.”

“He doesn’t need a priest,” Bertie reminded him gently. “And you’re far more wise than you know.”

It was nice to know that Bertie had such a high opinion of him. Thomas had to wonder where it had come from. “I have my own issue to sort out,” Thomas said, “But I’ll do what I can. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Bertie gave him a watery smile. “Thank you.”

 

 

~*~

 

 

With a plan newly forged, Bertie and Edith settled into Downton for a temporary stay, and Bertie rang Peter where he’d set him up in a London hotel to bid him to come to Downton. Money was wired, train tickets were purchased, and the very next day Thomas was informed that the notorious Peter Pelham would be arriving by tea time. Though he knew that he ought to be inside with his family, Thomas still could not resist sneaking out to spend some time with Arion. He was determined to enter Arion into a race, but didn’t know the first thing about racing professionally. As such, he’d looked up books in his father study and was now attempting to practice it first hand.

Arion was a poor pupil, but he was trying.

“Y’can’t shift!” Thomas warned his horse, a finger in his face. “Stay still when you stand at attention. No puttering about-”

Just to make a fuss, Arion shifted his back right leg. Thomas scoffed, sat his book down, and immediately put the leg right.

“Stay still!” Thomas bade his horse. “Still like a tin statue. Go on!”  
Arion’s ears swiveled. He snorted, then pawed at the earth and headed for the wall of the coral.

“Hey, hey-!” Thomas was starting to get annoyed, but paused when he saw Carson coming towards the barn. This, clearly, had broken Arion’s concentration. If he was sharp with Tom, he was downright hateful of Carson. The closer Carson got, the more angry Arion became, until he was nickering and trotting about the coral.

“Arion-- come here-!” Thomas reached out with quick hands and snagged Arion’s bridal reign, pulling him back towards the barn. “Stop being silly.”

Arion jerked his head, but allowed Thomas to drag him back towards his stall. Able to finally approach the barn without being barreled over by a furious horse, Carson entered and stood at attention.

Thomas hated this, how Carson was now bade to treat him like a master when before he’d practically been the man’s slave. It was all so… forced and fictional. He knew Carson still hated him. That perhaps he always would.

“Is the Marquess here?” Thomas asked, hoping that Carson had been sent to fetch him.

“Not yet, but he will be here in the hour,” Carson said. “He’s rung from the station but says he’ll walk.”

“Right-” A walk from the station would take about forty five minutes, just enough time for Thomas to bathe and redress. “I ought to get washed up then.”

Locking Arion in his stall, Thomas wiped his hands upon his work trousers and headed for the barn door. This meant he was forced to pass Carson, who was watching him reproachfully.

Unsure of what else to do, Thomas stopped so that the two of them were staring at one another expectantly. What could the man possibly want with him.

“... If I might be so bold, Lord Downton, Dr. Rhodes called last night to reconfirm your phone call on Sunday. He insisted that you and I needed to have a conversation-”

But Thomas didn’t want to do this. Not now, not in a million damn years.  
He pushed past Carson, heading for the grassy knoll and the main house. Behind him, he heard Carson make a sharp noise of disapproval.

“Lord Downton!” Carson called out angrily. “I’m only doing what’s asked of me!”

“Well I’m asking you to leave me alone!” Thomas bade. He stopped and turned, glaring Carson down. Carson was shocked at his tone.

“Just…” Thomas could not be angry at the man, he looked away ashamed. “Just don’t mention it again, alright? We don’t need to talk. Not now, not ever.”

“I wish that were true,” Carson grumbled. “But we both know that it’s not.”

 

Unable to think of anything that he might say in reply, Thomas ran back to the house and did not look over his shoulder until he was safely once more over the threshold of his family home.

He bathed with vigor, scrubbing angrily at his skin until it was pink from the irritation. Why had Dr. Rhodes brought up speaking with Carson yet again, and to Carson of all people? Thomas was trying to settle back into living at Downton-- he didn’t need this kind of strain!

 _You’re afraid,_ a voice whispered nastily in his head. _You’re afraid of Carson, admit it._

And though he’d never say it out loud, never so much as even hint at it… it was true. He was terrified of Charles Carson.

To distract himself from thinking about Carson, Thomas instead thought about Peter (his Peter, not the marquess). He wondered where he was… what he was doing.

What would Peter say about Carson? Would he tell Thomas to talk to him, just like he’d said about Dr. Rhodes, or would he offer different advice?

Redressing in simple but clean clothes, Thomas returned downstairs to find most of his family in the pink parlor. The only ones missing were Edith and Bertie; Thomas had to wonder where they were.

When Robert saw Thomas, he made a beeline for him. He had a determined look on his face.

“Thomas, Carson has told me you’ve been a bit of a goose today,” Robert murmured in his ear.

“Oh da-” Thomas groaned, accepting a cup of tea from Andy. “Not today. Not when I have to act normal in front of a guest, please?”

“Well guest or no, a conversation must be had,” Robert advised.

“Yes, alright-!” Thomas begged the man off. “Just not right now, please. I beg you.”

“Robert-” Cora had come to Thomas’ rescue. She looked at her husband knowingly. “Let’s talk about this later, yes?”

“Fine,” Robert would not deny both his wife and his son. “But I’m not happy.”

In a show of silent support, Cora took Thomas’ hand and squeezed it tightly.

The door to the pink parlor opened to reveal Carson, who looked slightly exhausted.

“The… other… Marquess of Hexam has arrived, M’lord,” Carson said. There was no easy way to explain who their guest was, and certainly no proper title to give him when Bertie had already claimed it.

“Show him in, Carson,” Robert ordered. At once, Carson turned his back on the family to gesture to someone that Thomas could not see.

Bertie and Edith entered, and after them… came Peter.

 

Thomas’ grip upon his teacup slipped. It fell to the carpeted floor with a sharp smack, spilling hot tea everywhere. He heard Cora suck in a breath of reproach, but could not pay attention to her. He could think of nothing save for the man before him.

His Peter.

 

 _“He recently got married, or so he tells me, but he should be back from his honeymoon any day now. I’m going to ask him for help.”_ Peter had said in the attic of Rustington.

Edith and Bertie had just gotten back from their honeymoon.

 _“In our youth, he and I were always close.”_ Peter had said. 

Only yesterday, Bertie had said, _“Robert, he was my closest childhood companion. I asked him things that only Peter would know. He answered without flaw or fail. I cannot deny who he is or what it means.”_

Oh how had he been so stupidly blind? So foolishly idiot not to see what was glaringly obvious in front of him?

Peter-- Peter Pelham the original Marquess of Hexam-- was the homeless man that Thomas had cared for at Rustington. Was the man that had said that Thomas’ soul was like a painting. Was the man that had captivated Thomas’ thoughts night and day since they’d been parted less than a week ago.

The man was just as shocked as Thomas, white faced and slack jawed as they stared at one another. Peter had clearly bathed, but his hair was still long and his eyes… his beautiful brown eyes.

Bertie’s eyes had looked familiar the other day because they were the same as Peter’s-- oh! Thomas felt like such a moron!

People were speaking, he couldn’t make much sense of it.

“Peter this is Lord Grantham, Edith’s father,” Bertie was trying to introduce Peter to Robert, but Peter was not looking. Instead, he was too captivated by the sight of Thomas.

“Peter?” Edith murmured when Peter did not take her father’s hand.

Robert looked over his shoulder, following Peter’s gaze to Thomas who was standing with a dropped teacup at his feet. Thomas suddenly felt like his insides were squirming with anxiety. Why now had he run out of things to say?

“Do we know one another?” Robert asked.

It was a very good question, and it inspired Thomas.

“... Did you know?” Thomas asked Peter.

Peter shook his head. A small smile was beginning to appear upon his lovely lips.

The entire room was staring, watching as Thomas let out a groan of disbelief. “Oh how could I have been so stupid?”

“We weren’t to know,” Was Peter’s wise reply.

“Have you two met?” Bertie asked.

“... This sublime creature saved my life,” Peter said. Thomas had never been called sublime before; he blushed in reproach.

He couldn’t keep from smiling, and he felt like a fool.

“You saved mine,” Thomas replied. “I told you before.”

Peter just shrugged. “Call it rent,” He teased. Thomas couldn’t help but laugh. Some rent, for the attic of Rustington.

“How do you two know each other?” Edith wondered.

“I was a vagabond,” Peter explained. “I roamed England and eventually was around West Sussex. I stumbled upon Rustington, and this wonderful man gave me food and shelter. It was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for me.”

“The wandered?” Cora gave a sudden gasp in understanding. “You’re the one that Thomas gave the Turner to!”

“So you’re not his cousin,” Robert snapped, suddenly growing angry as if he’d solved some great puzzle.

“Robert, I assure you, this is my cousin!” Bertie shot him down at once. “I would know him anywhere. If anything it’s a shocking coincidence that he and Thomas have met before.”

“It’s true, papa,” Edith said, for Robert was still wary of their guest. “I’ve seen pictures of Peter, and he’s a dead ringer. And he knows things only Peter would know!”

But Thomas didn’t need to be convinced that Peter was or was not a marquess. He didn’t care about titles. He was just glad to have his friend back.

His dearest friend.

“Did you keep the Turner?” Thomas teased. Silently, Peter pulled off a weather beaten leather rucksack from his back and undid the clasp to pull out the tightly rolled canvas. He gestured with it.

“Told you I wouldn’t see it,” Peter said. “Not when you were the one that gave it to me.”

Thomas scoffed; honestly what silliness.

“Sit down,” thomas said. “You must be tired.”

“I’m filthy,” Peter said. To be fair, he was the most shoddily dressed of the group. “I’ll stain the chair.”

“Good we’ll keep it as art,” Thomas teased. Finally comfortable, Peter sat down near the hearth and accepted the tea that Thomas offered to him. This was far beyond the usual, for a lord never served himself or others when a servant was present. Andy looked ready to wet himself, as if he thought that Carson might blame him.

“Ever the footman,” Peter praised.

“A biscuit m’lord?” thomas joked.

Peter laughed. It was wonderful ringing sound, like that of a silver bell on a Christmas morning. Bertie stared at his cousin in wonder even as Thomas gave him a biscuit to eat. Peter took it heartily, famished from his travel.

“Living wild has changed you, cousin,” Bertie wondered. “You never laughed before.”

“Never had anything to laugh for,” Peter reminded Bertie gently. There was a wonderful tenderness, the way they spoke to one another. Thomas had never heard two men be so kind. So uncaring about others thought.

Bertie sat down on the couch across from Peter so that they might speak frankly. Unsure of where else to stand, Thomas found himself gravitating next to Peter’s chair so that they were side by side.

“I just… I don’t know what you want of me. What you want from me, and I’m scared to death because I don’t have that much to give besides my title.”

“Keep the damn thing,” Peter tutted, “You know I don’t want it. What I really need is a sponsor. I can’t keep living in the woods, Bertie, I… I’m not good at it. It’s making me ill.”

“It’d make anyone ill,” Bertie wondered at the snowfall outside their sitting room window. “I’m amazed you haven’t caught influenza.”

“I’m pretty sure I did at some point,” Peter said. “Wouldn’t have made it through the winter without Thomas. He saved me from certain death.”

“Hush and eat your biscuit,” Thomas tutted.

“I want to reinvent myself,” Peter continued on with a mouth full of biscuit. “As an artist. I want to be someone else, not the man that hid in Hexam… I want to be me.”

There was such longing in Peter’s voice that Thomas’ heart ached for him. “No one from our old world would recognize me now anyways, half dead and penniless.”

“But why fake your death in the first place?” Robert could no longer keep silent. Seeing Thomas stand next to Peter’s chair seemed to fill him with some kind of unease. Why?

“Why do something so terrible?” Robert demanded. “Why break your mother’s heart just to become an artist?”

“... My mother did not mourn my death, Lord Grantham,” Peter said. “Not all mother’s love their children.”

“It’s true,” Bertie added bitterly. “She didn’t even cry at his wake.”

“Don’t fret, Bertie, we both know she can’t cry. Her tear glands are sealed shut, remember that pact she made with the devil?” Peter teased. Bertie snorted, in spite of himself.

“There are worse things than death, Lord Grantham,” Peter finally said. “I had to make a choice. And I do not regret it when it lead me to Thomas… to this house.” He added just for clarity.

Robert still looked slightly unsure.

“I will not pretend to hide what I am,” Peter said. He spoke with such sage courage and authority. “I’m inverted, and everyone in my family knew. They made my life a living hell for me. My only escape was to Tangiers. One day, I decided that there was no point in going back. If that disgusts you, please tell me now so that I might excuse myself before it gets dark.”

Robert’s facial expression softened with pity. “It doesn’t disgust me,” Robert promised him. “You cannot help the way you are. It would be like trying to argue with a cloud against raining.”

Peter smiled, tired with the world. “You’re very kind, Lord Grantham. Many would argue with a cloud if it meant getting the weather they liked.”

“But why did you come back, then?” Robert asked. “If you’d made up your mind so clearly, it doesn’t make sense-”

“Well…” Peter sighed, setting down his teacup. It was empty, so Thomas made to refill it only to be stopped by Andy who instead gave him a fresh one.

“I contracted Malaria and nearly died,” Peter admitted. He gestured to his face, and once again Thomas had to remark at just how pale and thin Peter was. He’d looked ill back in Rustington, now it all made sense.

“So that’s why you looked so horrid back in Rustington,” Thomas mused. “You were getting over malaria.”

“Now you’re catching on,” Peter teased.

“But isn’t that what you pretended to die of in the first place?” Edith asked.

“It is,” Peter shifted in his chair, musing over the whole horrid predicament. “Rather queer, I suppose. Maybe that was karma. I’m better now, but I’m still very weak. What’s more, I ran out of money trying to keep myself alive. Treatment was expensive in Tangiers… one of the reasons so many people die.”

“But then-” Mary was moving a finger back and forth in mid-air, trying to connect the dots. “How did you get back to England? You must have had some money to get on a ship.”

“I confess, I snuck on board and stayed in the cargo hold,” Peter said. “Nearly got squashed by a moving crate one night.”

“Oh Peter, but this is awful-” Bertie lamented. “We have to get you seen by a doctor, today if possible. You could still be terribly ill-”

“Well I’m not dead yet-” Peter tried for optimism.

At this, Robert interjected. While he spoke with kindness there was still a stern rigidity on his face that Thomas did not like to see.

“I confess, I am sorry for your situation Lord Hexam,” Robert said. “At the same time, I don’t want my daughter to lose her new station and security in life. Perhaps you can see how difficult this is for me. Should anyone find out you’re alive-”

“Ah, but what if we pretended I was someone else?” Peter cut across Robert, a delightful grin in place. “I could stay out of the public eye. I don’t want to be the heir, I want Bertie to take it. He’s normal. He can pass the title to his own children.”

“You’re normal!” Bertie was rather irritated by the insinuation.

“You know what I mean.”

“Still-” Bertie grumbled, relaxing back onto the arm of the sofa. “You’re normal. That is the hill I will die on.” He paused, glancing to where Thomas stood at Peter’s side. “And I mean that for you too.”

Thomas smiled, rather touched by his brother in law’s kindness. “You’re a good man, Bertie,” Thomas praised.

“One of the best,” Peter agreed. “He always was, even as a child. He used to shelter baby birds when they fell out of their nests. He’d hide them in his sock drawer; I had to trick the nanny into overlooking them. We were quite a pair.”

At this, Bertie gestured from Peter to Robert.

‘No one but Peter and I would know that,” Bertie said. Robert was duly impressed.

“... Why not stay here?” Robert said. Cora nodded in support. Peter was surprised at this show of generosity.

“But for how long?” He asked, concerned. “I’d need to make enough money as an artist to get myself settled somewhere, and god only knows how long that would take.”

“I’ll support you,” Bertie promised. “If Robert will house you, I will pay for your career. Between the two of us we’ll make a meal of it.”

“You can stay here while you get your life settled,” Robert said. “You can paint on the gallery floor if you like. I’m sure we can get a room set up for you.”

Peter looked from Robert and Cora who had offered their home, to Bertie who had offered his wallet, and wondered at his amazing stroke of good fortune. Though there were no tears in his eyes, it was obvious that he was moved beyond words, and close to an emotional breakdown.

“... Why are you being so kind to me?” Peter wondered.

To this, Robert offered a simple if touching solution. “Because I love my son.”

Thomas had no idea where he came into it, but he was grateful nevertheless. He offered his father a timid smile which was wholly returned.

Peter toasted Robert with his half-drunk tea. “There is a great deal to love, sir.”


	11. Champions and Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter settles into life at Downton Abbey.  
> Thomas gets a hobby.  
> Bertie and Dr. Clarkson give a warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graduated with my MFA on Saturday. Technically I still have to take care of summer quarter, so I'll truly be finished in late August... still, it does feel like a major milestone accomplished. 
> 
> No trigger warnings in this chapter.

There was nothing entirely wrong with Peter Pelham, per say, but Robert Crawley was almost certain that something odd was going on in his house and he didn’t like it one bit.

He’d never known his uncle, not very well at least, and so before Thomas had come along it had been difficult for him to truly understand the broad scope of personality that was to be found in an inverted man. Of course, Robert was almost certain that some of his old friends were inverted (in particular a school chum named Wesley who’d been delighted to watch other boys skinny dip in the guise of watching out for their headmaster). That being said, he’d never openly known the truth, it was much too dangerous for others to speak out on. Private affairs were best left private; that was the motto by which Robert lived. Perhaps that was why Peter Pelham was so odd to him.

Nothing was entirely private with Peter. He was calm, but not placid. He was outgoing but not bubbly. He smiled often but spoke little save for when he was speaking to Bertie Hexam or Thomas. Indeed, he spent quite a lot of time talking to Thomas, and therein lay the problem. Robert had never fully realized just how vivacious his son was till he was compared to another inverted man. Thomas was coy and catty, a little too flirtatious, and an all around cheeky imp. But Peter seemed to thrive on their banter, and spent his days either painting on the gallery hall or tailing after Thomas like a love sick puppy. Robert didn’t want to imagine there was anything going on between them but…

Well… it was _odd_.

It was a fine early spring morning, and the snows of winter were just starting to melt. With the temperature warming up, Thomas went outside more often than not during the day, which suited Robert just fine. Fresh air was good for his son, and it got him out of the house (he got a little rambunctious when cooped up). Robert was in the middle of heading to the library to write a letter to a distant cousin when he noticed Thomas bounding down the main stairs in his riding clothes. He looked happier than he’d been in a long time, with a content smile upon his face and a spring in his step. Yet before Thomas could make it to the landing, he was confronted by Peter coming out of the green baize door. What he’d been doing in the servant’s hallways, Robert could only guess. Then, he noticed a picnic basket in Peter’s grip and all became apparent: he’d been visiting the kitchens for food.

“Ah! I’ve caught you!” Peter met Thomas at the bottom of the stairs. Thomas was all but bouncing on his heels, glad to have met his bosom friend.

“Not for long!” Thomas sing songed, heading for the front door. As usual, Peter followed right after him.

“I want to go with you.”

“Into the woods? It’s a little chilly.”

“I want to try and capture some nature up close,” Peter said, gesturing to his picnic basket. Perhaps it was full of supplies instead of food. “There’s a stream nearby or so I’ve been told. Will you take me?”

“Of course!” Thomas said cheerfully. “Maybe we can find a rat and eat it.”

“Ah, pleasant memories,” Peter grumbled. “Alas, Mrs. Patmore has offered me some meat pies and other goodies. If you’re nice, I’ll share them.”

“Give over!”

And they were back to bantering again, with Thomas trying to take the picnic basket from Peter’s hands while Peter held it over his head. They were like naughty children, playing with one another.

“Jump for your food!” Peter teased, till Thomas punched him playfully in the stomach. Winded, Peter nearly dropped the basket so that Thomas seized it and ran for the front door.

“Assault!” Peter whinged, hobbling after Thomas like he’d been stabbed instead of punched. “I’ve been assaulted! Someone call the p’lice!”

“You’ll never catch me!” Thomas’ drifted farther and farther away as he ran out the front door. Peter gave up pretending and ran after him, an enormous grin upon his face.

Robert watched him go, unsure if he was entirely happy with the proceedings.

 

~*~

 

 

The day was glorious, as if it were a gift given to Thomas and Peter by the universe. After months of wretched cold and nearly constant snowfall, it felt glorious to have the sun on his face again. Winter wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but Thomas now felt hopeful for the return of spring. Soon, the grounds of England would be flush with wildflowers and he and Peter would be able to stay outside all day painting and running amuck. He couldn’t imagine a more pleasant experience if he tried.

Peter, as it turned out, was horrible at horse riding. Instead of taking his own charge and following Thomas, he sat behind Thomas on Arion’s saddle. Thomas was concerned that Arion wouldn’t be able to withstand the weight, but he needn’t have worried. As steady as a plow horse, Arion soldiered on through the woods of Grantham. He was too large, too powerful to be tacked down.

The spring which Peter had mentioned was in fact the River Ure, which was so large it could be found from Bainbridge all the way to Boroughbridge. By the time it got to Rippon, the river was enormous, but in Grantham there were areas that were still more like babbling brooks with heavy boulders and high peaks. It was these areas which Peter and Thomas sought, for one could easily lounge on the banks and enjoy the view without having to worry about flooding. After finding a clearing, Thomas and Peter relieved Arion and began to set up their camp site. Peter’s travel sack was full of painting supplies, and Thomas was watched amazed as he set up a trifold stand, pulled out a canvas, and began to prepare what looked like an entire shops worth of paints and brushes.

Thomas felt rather useless, so he took Arion into the river and began to bath the mud and muck from his legs and underbelly.

“You know-” Peter called out from the bank as he painted, “hearing about Carson is one thing, but meeting him? That’s another.”

“Had a bad run in?” Thomas called back. They had to speak up slightly to be heard over the sound of the raging brook.

“The way he looks at you is unnerving,” Peter said. “It’s clear he wants to talk to you, but he doesn’t know how. It’s like he’s holding back a flood of words in his mouth.”

“Good, I hope he chokes on them,” Thomas muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“I said I hope he chokes on them!” Thomas shouted. The corner of Peter’s mouth quirked into a semi-smile, but he was far too concentrated on painting to laugh. Curious to see what Peter’s subject was, Thomas tramped back up to the bank with his pants rolled up and his shoes off.

“Let me see,” He looked over Peter’s shoulder, only to be taken aback by the sight of himself. Peter had been painting Thomas bathing Arion, and though neither form were close to completion it was obvious that Peter was an incredibly skilled artist.

“Cheeky!” Thomas teased. Peter just grinned.

“Get back down there and frolic,” Peter commanded.

Flouncing back down to the river, Thomas suddenly felt inspired if not a little flirtatious. The sun was out, the day was warming up, and if Peter wanted a good show then why shouldn’t he give it to him.

Thomas disrobed his shirtsleeves, twirling his shirt about in the air as Peter smiled and shook his head.

“Now whose cheeky?”

“Thought I’d give you something good to paint,” Thomas said.

“Take it all off!” Peter teased from the shore. Just for show, Thomas put his hands on the waistband of his trousers.

“I was only joking!” Peter said. Now he was the one blushing, wading to the shoreline to fetch more water for his rinse jar. He paused, watching thomas bath Arion now shirtless.

“Beautiful…” Peter murmured.

“Oh give over.”

“I was talking about the horse, not you,” Peter teased. “Look who's vain and pompous!”

Thomas pretended to act hurt, hiding his face in Arion’s great neck. “Arion look how he toys with me… won’t you trample him to death with your hooves?”

Arion snorted, perhaps a warning to Peter not to tempt his notorious temper.

“Trample me?” Peter stood up, leaving his bell jar by the shoreline to take off his boots and roll of his pants. Thomas watched, unsure, as Peter began to wade out into the river near Arion.

Arion’s ears swiveled back.

“I don’t think-” Thomas feared, but Peter cut him off with a gentle shake of the head.

He took one step, then another. Arion watched him, noting that Peter took great pauses between each step like he was a bride walking up the aisle of a church.

Another step.  
Another.

And then suddenly, Peter and Arion were side by side. It was the closest anyone had ever come to touching Arion besides Thomas and Mr. Colton.

Arion stood stock still as Peter slowly reached up with a paint stained hand to touch his lower neck. Arion snorted at the touch, shifting a bit in the creek as Peter allowed his hand to ride all the way up Arion’s neck till he was petting his muzzle and jaw.

“... Well I’ll be damned,” Thomas mused.

“King of the horses, you are,” Peter praised Arion. Arion blinked, unsure of what to make of all the hubbub.

Looking at Peter in that moment, there were many things that Thomas wanted to say.

He wanted to say that Peter was amazing, kind, smarter than any other man he knew, and just as gentle. He wanted to say that Peter was the first to touch Arion, to gain his trust, and just how much that meant to Thomas. He wanted to ask why Peter had thanked Thomas for two masterpieces instead of one back in Rustington, and why his soul was like a painting. He wanted to tell Peter that his life had been fuller since the day he’d met him. That he didn’t know how to solve problems without talking to Peter first …

But all that managed to come out of his mouth was “I’m hungry”.

Peter smiled, as if he knew that Thomas had meant to say more. “Then let’s have a bite to eat.”

 

 

 

 

It was incredibly pleasant to eat small bits of steak and ale pie while he told Peter about Carson. Words that would never come easy in front of his family were as natural as breathing with Peter. All the stories, all the pain, all the awful things that Thomas could not reconcile with… Peter listened to it all.

“... I guess, I’ve always been scared of Carson,” Thomas felt like he’d been talking for twenty years. “You know? Ever since that day in his office… ever since Jimmy.”

“I can see why,” Peter agreed. He sat down the remnants of his pie, carefully brushing his fingers upon the grass to get rid of the grease. “That would scare the hell out of me too. But…” Peter turned to look at Thomas, eyes narrowed in deep thought. “Do you ever wonder if maybe what he said, he said in anger instead of actual belief?”

Thomas thought of Tom who only a few days ago had sneered at his condition over a jab at Sybil’s beloved memory. “Is that any excuse to treat me so poorly?” He wondered.

“Nah,“ Peter wouldn’t even contemplate such a silly idea. “But it might be an explanation. And it would make it easier to talk to him, wouldn’t it?”

“How?” Thomas wondered, for none of these revelations were opening doors for him. “What do you want me to do? Get angry back?”

“That’s a shouting match you’d never win,” Peter deduced. “Matter of fact, no one wins that way. No… what if instead you just…” Peter twirled his hand in the air, deep in thought. “Didn’t hit back? He shouts, you stare. Stare at him, as ugly as you can. Stare at him like he’s the biggest disappointment you’ve ever seen in your life. Calm, collected, say ‘when you’ve regained your self control and stopped acting like a child, we’ll finish this conversation’.”

“Ooh!” Calling Carson a child? Now that was just wicked. “That’s mean!”

“I’m mean,” Peter said with a grin. Now that Thomas didn’t believe for a moment.

“Hardly,” He said. “You’re my favorite person.”

“Yeah?” Peter said. “Well you’re mine.”

Thomas blushed. He wondered if Peter could guess the depths of his feelings. If Peter could even help him understand them. But Thomas didn’t want to be a charity case-

“I suppose I’m the world’s greatest charity case,” Peter said. Was it Thomas’ imagination, or did he hear self-disgust in the man’s voice?

“You’d be surprised,” Thomas replied.

 

~*~

 

 

That night at dinner, Peter found himself constantly looking at Carson.

 _“He said I should be horsewhipped,”_ Thomas had confided. _“That my world was revolting. That nature had twisted into something unnatural.”_

_Vile._   
_Revolting._   
_Unnatural._

Peter had heard those words many times before, hadn’t he?

“How was your ride, Lord… well…” Peter was snapped out of his reverie by Lord Grantham, who was trying his best to make pleasant conversation.

“Peter is fine,” Peter said. His throat felt difficult to swallow around.

“It’s practically un-English to be so familiar, but if you insist,” Lord Grantham’s tone was upbeat, but Peter wasn’t able to focus on him. Instead, he found himself watching the way that Carson patrolled the outer perimeter of the table, waiting for a wine glass to need refilling. He’d paused right behind Thomas’ chair, and was staring at the back of his head.

His expression was… twisted. Equal parts grief, guilt, and anger. It made Peter sick to his stomach to see.

Thomas was talking. His voice was oddly serenading amidst the humidity and tension of the dining room. It was like a cool breeze, sucking away all the damp and angry air.

“It was actually quite wonderful,” Thomas paused to take a sip of wine. “Peter and I rode Arion together. We gave him a bath, fished, he painted. It was a lovely day.”

Carson was still watching the back of Thomas’ head.

“You’re making a study of Carson-” Lord Grantham said.

Peter shuddered, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from where Carson was still staring at Thomas.

“I suppose I am,” Peter tittered. He had to take a deep breath to quell the dark thoughts inside of him. Flashes of his past were threatening to bubble up from just beneath the surface. He wondered if he’d always be having to suppress them.

“Speaking of which-” Lord Grantham was just carrying right along, completely oblivious to the fact that Peter was barely functioning. “You need to have your conversation.”

There, just there. Thomas glanced at Peter from across the table, and Peter could see the fear in his face.

The same fear that Peter had felt for his own parents.

“Not now,” Thomas wouldn’t meet his families eyes, instead contenting himself with a small sip of white wine. Behind him, Carson was still watching the back of his head.

“Certainly, but soon.”

“Why do you even need to have some private conversation with Carson?” Edith wondered. “Why make it so mysterious?”

Thomas said nothing. Peter said nothing.  
In lieu of the silence, Edith looked slightly disturbed.

“Is something wrong?” Edith asked.

“No,” Thomas lied, setting his wine goblet aside. “Everything is fine.”

 

~*~

 

Everything was not fine, but Thomas could not focus on that. The memory of Rustington hung over him like some kind of moth eaten winter coat. He feared that any slip up mentally might result in him tumbling down some steep hill. What if Peter wasn’t enough to save him? What if talking to Carson resulted in the worse?

What if, what if, what if…

To hide from all these awful things, to hide from the inevitable, Thomas contented himself with trying on hobbies like they were hats. In particular, horse racing.

Horse racing in England was a traditional past time, and there were many tiers to pursue. In order to advance, you had to start from the bottom. In a few seasons, a jockey could go from being nameless to a national star. But Thomas was not a jockey. He didn’t have a coach or a horse that was trained to jump. All he had was pluck, grit, and Arion. Hopefully that would be enough for the first few rounds.

One afternoon, Thomas stood in the library on the telephone with a local horse race manager in York. It was a simple sort of affair, nothing truly grand, and it cost ten pounds for Thomas to enter himself as a last minute rider. Currently, Thomas was on hold while the race manager confirmed his spot and number on the upcoming weekend’s race.

In this brief lull of conversation, Robert entered the library with several books in hand. Clearly he was intent on reshelving some more fragile books that he didn’t trust to servant hands.

“Ah, there you are,” Robert said. “Who are you on the phone with? It’s not Sunday.”

“A local horse race manager,” Thomas said. Robert tutted as he put up his books.

“Thomas, you’re not trained yet.”

“Well, let me give it a try. If I fail miserably, I’ll get a trainer.” It was hardly a bullet proof strategy, but Thomas was desperately holding onto any life raft he could. Anything to keep him away from talking to Carson.

As if sensing Thomas’ fear, Robert said, “Have you spoken to Carson yet?”

Thomas could not hold back the sigh that burst from within him. “Not yet.”

“Thomas, talk to Carson today,” Robert said. He didn’t like the tone that his father was taking.

“Not today-”

“Then when-”

“Later.”

“When is later?”

“Dad, I don’t know!” Thomas had not screamed at his father in quite a long time. It was not a shout of anger so much as that of emotional frustration. Why could Robert not see that this was unendingly difficult for him? That it wasn’t as simple as sitting down to tea with Carson and discussing their differences.

Robert paused, his hand still outstretched with a book halfway shelved.

“Please-” Thomas begged, the strain showing in his voice. “I don’t want to talk to him. Why can’t you understand that?”

Somber, Robert slowly dropped his hand. The book lay at his side.

“I know, Thomas,” Robert murmured. “That’s why you need to.”

 

~*~

 

Despite Robert’s request, Thomas did not talk to Carson that day, or the next day, or even the next. Saturday came, and with it the family went to York in order to watch Thomas race. Peter had to watch from a distance as Arion was loaded onto the back of a carriage. Thomas refused to be parted from Arion, and rode with him. When they arrived at the race track, two hours had passed, a great deal of hubbub was shown over horses being paraded past in their colors.

Now in the stands, the Crawley family plus Peter sat watching from an excellent height. Able to pay for a better view, the family was eager to gaze down upon the crowd of jockeys and look for their own. Thomas was easy to spot, dressed in a riding uniform but no formal house colors. Instead he’d tied a pattern of blue and red kerchiefs around his upper right arm. It was a queer sight to behold, particularly when placed next to proper jockeys in their pretty vests and shining boots.

“Why does he need to talk to Carson?” Lady Grantham was speaking to Lord Grantham, with Peter just close enough to overhear her amid the babble. The race was soon to begin.

“Dr. Rhodes seemed to insist that there was a large drama between them,” Lord Grantham said. “Something that inspired Thomas’ poor mood swing.”

Oh _poor mood swing_ , that was a cute word for it.

“That’s a word for it,” Tom Branson muttered under his breath. Unfortunately for him, Lady Mary heard him.

“Then what would would you use?” She demanded.

Despite Thomas and Lady Mary being twins, there was something to be said of the differences between them. Where Thomas was warm, Lady Mary was oddly cold. It unsettled Peter, like he was looking into a haunting mirror of what Thomas could so easily be.

“A fight on a scale of Shakespearean legend,” Branson scoffed. “Thomas had a habit of running his mouth everytime Carson and he butted heads. It just made things worse and worse-”

“That’s not what it is.” Peter snapped. He could not stand to hear such piffle talk. Branson looked about, highly irritated to be upstaged by someone who had only been in the house for a week or so.

“What do you know?” Tom demanded. “You’ve only been in the house a week.”

“I know more than you because I talk to Thomas and I listen to what he says,” Peter warned. “Our hearts understand one another. Carson’s sins are known to me.”

“Sins…” the word gave Lady Mary pause. She looked rather disturbed at the thought of her butler being accused of anything. But if she was to understand the truth, she would have to be open to receiving it.

 

A bugel began to play, its sharp whine a warning that the race was about to begin. As a result, many people stood up in their seats with some daring to even drape over the balcony sides in order to see better. The Crawleys, as a unit, moved to the edge in order to see their player better. Peter stood behind, feeling as if he was somehow intruding upon a personal moment. Though he was bathed and dressed, with trimmed hair and a clean chin, Peter still felt like a vagabond most of the time.

Thomas was the only one who made him feel human.

“There he is-” Bertie had to crane his neck over Branson’s shoulder in order to see Thomas better.

“Hard to miss him,” Peter mused. Bertie drew back, and soon the two cousins were able to talk in peace while the family watched from beyond. “Arion’s huge compared to the others.”

“And all the other jockeys are much more slim,” Bertie added. “There’s a sort of frame to them, you know. They’re always such small fellows.”

“... Well he’s not fat,” Peter grumbled. But before Bertie could either confirm or deny the intentions of his odd comment, a gunshot sounded and the racers were off.

For a moment, Peter wondered if Thomas might lag behind the others. Untrained and undressed, he stuck out like a sore thumb. But instead of falling to the back, Arion charged forward with such pace and speed that Thomas was easily muscleling for first without so much as a ‘how do you do’. By god, he was fast!

“Christ, he’s quick isn’t he?” Peter swore. This was a simple race track, a mere round look broken only by a few jumps set with wooden fences painted white.

“Bouncing all over the place-” Peter heard Robert complain from the front. “I have _got_ to get him a trainer!”

“Better than me, I’d have fallen off by now!” Branson said back.

But Bertie wasn’t watching the race. Instead, he was drawing close to Peter until they were elbow to elbow. If it were any other man besides Thomas, Peter would feel uncomfortable with the close proximity. As it stood, Bertie was all but a brother and could be trusted in any matter.

“What did you mean, that your hearts understand one another?” Bertie muttered in his ear. Over the din of the crowd cheering and booing, it would be impossible for another to understand their conversation.

“He’s in first!” Lord Grantham was delighted. Peter craned his neck to see Thomas was indeed in first place, but with a creamy horse right behind and desperately fighting for the lead.

“He’s actually winning the race!” Lady Mary was just as blissful as her father, if not slightly shocked by their stroke of good luck.

“I’m not sure I can explain,” Peter said. Bertie frowned. “It’s rather beyond me to be honest.”

This was far from a lie. From the very first moment that Peter had met Thomas, starving and searching for rotten vegetables in a frozen garbage bin, he’d felt that Thomas understood him. In their shared pain and experiences, they seemed to have been torn from the same cloth of fabric so that every jagged edge could only match up when they were placed side by side.

“Peter, you are a guest in the Crawley house,” Bertie reminded him. “I beg of you. Don’t do anything with Lord Grantham’s only son. I couldn’t bear to have you kicked out of Downton Abbey when I’ve only just gotten you back. Edith is the love of my life, and this is her family. We must respect them.”

Up front, Edith was leaning over the edge of the balcony with Mary. “There he goes!” Edith cried out as Thomas took the next turn. “Papa! He’s still in first!”

“He’s in first by a long shot!” Lord Grantham praised.

“My baby!” Lady Grantham clasped her hands to her breast, eyes gleaming with pride.

“If he can just hold his lead for the next turn-”

“I don’t say these things to hurt you,” Bertie murmured in his ear.

“I know,” The idea of Bertie saying anything to hurt him was downright laughable. “You’re too kind for that.”

“I only say it because I want you to be safe and happy, after a lifetime of being neither,” Bertie explained. “I don’t think Lord Grantham would dare do anything cruel, but I don’t want to test his patience on the subject either. You don’t know how terribly protective he can be of his children, and Thomas is a special case. His only son, and the victim of an awful kidnapping plot. Robert would sooner choke on his own tongue than see his son hurt again.”

“He’s going to win!” Edith was shrieking, all but hopping up and down as she held tight to her sister’s arm. Sure enough, the jockeys were coming around the last bend. Thomas was in first with that same creamy horse in second. Instead of being neck to neck, however, Thomas was in first by a good two paces. As a result, the crowd was growing hysterical as the riders came into the final stretch. It was now or never; if Thomas held his lead, he would win!

“He’s going to win!” Edith jiggled Lady Mary’s arm. “Mary, he’s going to win-!”

“Yes-!! Yes-!!!” Lady Mary held her breath, hands in the air and eyes sparkling with joy as Thomas reached the finish line.

 

And then he was over it.  
The race was over.  
Thomas had won in first.

 

“AHA!” Robert Crawley let out the most undignified shriek of delight that Peter had ever heard a man his age make. “Golly gumdrops I’ve birthed a champion!” He was giddy with delight, reaching around to kiss Lady Grantham in ceremony.

Peter couldn’t help but smile as he saw Thomas come to a staggering halt in front of the stands. He was being swarmed by photographers and other jockeys while Arion reared and snorted. Thomas was beaming, waving up at his family in delight.

Peter, however, could not find the courage to wave back in the middle of a crowd. Instead, he tipped his head just a little bit, locking eyes with Thomas.

Thomas nodded back, blushing with delight and grinning from ear to ear.

“You like him,” Bertie said. “Whether or not you want to admit it.”

“Maybe,” Peter said. He didn’t know his feeling well enough to confirm or deny them.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Thomas’ victory at the York racetrack was all over the local papers, with his face plastered like some kind of war hero on the front page. Frankly, he didn’t know what all the hubbub was about, but bringing home the trophy had felt positively euphoric. His trophy had been taken away by Mrs. Hughes to be polished and kept on the gallery floor; every so often, Thomas would poke his head through the door just to stare at it. The only thing which was seemingly off was Mr. Carson, who instead of being proud by the rest of the family just looked more and more bitter. Thomas couldn’t understand why, and it unnerved him to note the way that Carson would sometimes stare at him from across the room.

He’d still not spoken to the man. He was determined not to until it could no longer be avoided.

A few weeks after Thomas’ initial race, the month of March was over and April made way for beautiful blooms. Snow began to fizzle out and dry up, resulting in a lush wave of green overtaking the English countryside. It wasn’t exactly warm yet, but it was no longer so frigidly cold that the outdoors could not be enjoyed. Thomas would have thought Peter eager to get out of the house and paint more nature, but instead of being energetic the poor chap just seemed to be zapped of strength.

So, like any good host, Thomas arranged for a doctor's appointment with Dr. Clarkson and all but forced Peter to go.

“There’s really no need for this,” Peter complained on the back of Arion. Thomas, in the front, kept the pace at a steady trot as they headed into the village.

“You’ve been in a world of hurt, Peter, there’s every need,” Thomas said. Peter let out an audible groan of disbelief.

“I’m not dead yet!”

“How comforting. Perhaps we could raise the bar for physical health from ‘I’m not dead yet’ to ‘I’m doing well’.” Thomas sneered.

“Look-” Peter leaned around Thomas’ front, a petulant look upon his handsome face. “All I’m saying is that this is really unnecessary.”

“Well unfortunately for you, I don’t agree.” Thomas said. “I’m a good host. I want my house guest to get well.”

Peter grumbled, sitting back on Arion and allowing himself to fall silent so that he might enjoy the countryside. After several minutes of silence, he spoke up again, this time complementing instead of complaining.

“M’real proud of you, you know that?”

“For what?”

“The horse race.”

“Oh give over,” Thomas laughed.

“A pot can be proud of his kettle, can’t he?” Peter said, bringing back the age old nickname from Rustington.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to butter me up,” Thomas grinned. Peter let out a tisking sound of dismay.

“I’m afraid I’ve been told to keep my hands to myself.”

Was it Thomas’ imagination, or was his heart beginning to beat a little faster?

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, slightly breathless. He didn’t want to put words into Peter’s mouth.

“Bertie thinks I should mind my own business when it comes to you,” Peter grumbled. “Doesn’t want me getting kicked out of the house by your daddy.”

“Over my dead body!” Thomas scoffed angrily. Robert Crawley wouldn’t dare force Peter to leave! “No one’s kicking you anywhere.”

And then, something quite lovely happened.  
From behind him, Peter leaned in and wrapped his arms around Thomas’ stomach so that they were pressed back to front. This wasn’t unnecessarily odd when two people were riding a horse in tandem, but Peter had never done it before. The warmth of their combined touch, riddled with the feeling of Peter breathing softly upon the back of his neck made Thomas shudder with delight.

His pulse was positively racing by now.

“Even if they do, you can come visit me in the bush,” Peter teased.  
Thomas smiled, unable to help himself. “I always liked camping.”

 

The Downton Village Hospital was quiet on this particular afternoon, with very little people waiting at the front. Thomas hitched Arion to the gate post and allowed Peter to go inside first before following after. After years of a poor reputation in the village, Thomas’ presence was not exactly welcomed. He noted that certain nurses refused to even meet his eyes, perhaps remembering him from the time when Thomas ran Downton Abbey as a manager during the war.

Last year, such occurrences might have ruined Thomas’ mood, putting him into a blackened state where he might lash up at others. Now, however, Thomas found that he couldn’t be bothered. Some people wouldn’t let you change your spots no matter how hard you tried. He could spend a lifetime being angry for no reason, and where would it get him? Probably back to Rustington if he wasn’t careful.

Thomas found Peter milling calmly through the waiting room, gazing absently at paintings of the local farming community. They were hardly Turner’s, but Peter was still interested and even paused to remark at the price tag that one bore in the corner. He made a non-committal sound before stepping away and giving Thomas a wide smile.

Dr. Clarkson came marching up the hall, just as ragged and irritable as always. When he noted that Peter had not come alone, he paused and had to fix his expression into something akin to pleasantries. Thomas knew that Dr. Clarkson did not like him; he was under no illusions as to why. Clarkson, like everyone else in Downton Village, did not enjoy Thomas’ presence.

“Peter Crawley?” Dr. Clarkson asked. Peter nodded, offering his hand for the man to shake.

“That’s me.”

“Come this way--” When Thomas made to follow, Dr. Clarkson fell back. “Lord Downton, I’ll have to ask you to stay here.”

“No, it’s alright-” It was Peter who smoothed things over, not Thomas. “I want him to come.”

Dr. Clarkson didn’t know what to make of that.  
“... As you wish,” He finally said before leading the way to his office.

 

Dr. Clarkson’s office was at the end of the eastern hallway, past a row of infirmary pantries that carried everything from gauze to tongue depressors. The drugs, however, were kept in Dr. Clarkson’s office in a safe to which only he knew the combination. This cut down on thievery, not to mention addiction.

Thomas and Peter sat down across from Dr. Clarkson’s large desk. Dr. Clarkson shut his door for privacy, then took his own seat so that they were all facing one another.

“How can I help you today, Mr. Crawley?” Dr. Clarkson asked.

“Well, I won’t paint this picture any prettier than it is…” Peter heaved an enormous sigh, bracing his long willowy hands upon his knees. “I contracted malaria about five months ago. I’ve been living in the wild, I’ve not had access to good medicine, and frankly I feel like shit all the time. I almost might have contracted influenza while I was living outside during winter. I’m a goody bag full of diseases. Please give me medicine?” He even flashed Dr. Clarkson with a cheeky grin.

Thomas had to hide his laughter, pursing his lips to keep a stern face. Dr. Clarkson was taken aback, blinking at Peter confusedly.

“..Malaria.” Dr. Clarkson repeated, just for clarification.

“Malaria.”

“And where did you contract this?”

“Tangiers,” Peter explained.

“Ah-” Now Dr. Clarkson was catching on, perhaps wondering where in the hell Peter could have contracted such a disease in a cold region. “I see. Well if that’s the case, I’ll want to get a blood sample today to check for anemia and jaundice. Do you have any pain in your upper back?”

“A bit, yes,” Peter said. “To be honest, I hurt all over.”

“I’ll want to check your kidneys then, too,” Dr. Clarkson said. “Kidney failure isn’t uncommon when it comes to malaria. And we don’t know how far along the parasite has progressed. Did you receive treatment in Tangiers?”

“What I could, yes,” Peter said.

“I’m not certain it was eradicated, then,” Dr. Clarkson said. “Malaria can be tricky without proper intervention. It’s the reason why so many die. Tell me about your symptoms. How do you feel?”

“Oh,” Peter let out an exhausted sigh. “My muscles hurt all the damn time. I feel…” He deflated, suddenly quite miserable. “Awful. Pure damn awful. Sometimes my muscles contract without any reason. They cramp for ages, and it makes me want to die.”

“That’s definitely a symptom associated with malaria,” Dr. Clarkson mused. “The good news is with the proper medication, we can fix it.”

At this, Dr. Clarkson rose from his seat to fetch a syringe and vial from his cupboards. He washed his hands, then returned to Peter to gesture at his right arm: “I’d like to take a blood sample.”

Peter did as he was told, rolling up his sleeve so that Clarkson could get a good look at his veins. At this, Clarkson noticed the terrible scarring upon his skin and paused.

“Pellagra…” Dr. Clarkson mused. He took Peter by the jaw, forcing his mouth open. “Open your mouth-”

Peter did so, confused.

“No sores inside…” Dr. Clarkson sounded quite relieved. “Do you ever have trouble remembering things?”

“Don’t we all?” Peter asked as Dr. Clarkson prepared his syringe.

“I mean to say, do you have trouble thinking. Remembering enough that it affects your daily functions.”

“No, but you’re not making me hopeful. Why?”

“It’s possible that your time outside gave you more than just Malaria. It might also have given you Pellagra, a skin disease from a lack of niacin. Your sores are rather telling.”

Peter winced at his scarred hands, closing his eyes and pausing as Dr. Clarkson carefully drew a vial of blood. Even Thomas had to look away, for the site was slightly nauseating to him.

“All finished,” Dr. Clarkson said, pulling away so that Peter could hold a cotton ball to the injection site. Dr. Clarkson carefully placed the vial of Peter’s blood in a safe container so that it might not roll and shatter. “I’ll have this tested at once and contact you with the results. Depending on what I find, we’ll mediate your dosage of treatment. I likewise want to see if you have any vitamin deficiencies.”

Dr. Clarkson paused, giving Peter a small smile. “You can go now, if you like. There’s not much more we can do until we know the results. But I can give you some medicine for the pain if you like.”

“I’d appreciate that,” Peter paused, flushing slightly as if embarrassed. “But I actually have another question.”

“Yes?”

“Say if I were to… kiss a person.” Peter paused, his cheeks warm. “Could I give them malaria?”

Dr. Clarkson thought on it for a moment. “No,” He finally said. “You only get malaria by being bitten by an infected mosquito. But-” Dr. Clarkson gave Peter a stern warning. “I would urge you not to do anything intimate until you’re well again. You need to heal. Now is not the time for romance.”

“So everyone keeps telling me,” Peter muttered under his breath.

As Dr. Clarkson made to sort Peter out with a prescription for the chemist, Thomas found himself unable to keep from asking the questions so burning in his heart. What had it all meant? Why had Peter asked Dr. Clarkson such a thing? It was so peculiarly specific.

“... Thinking about kissing someone?” Thomas asked. Though he had not meant it to, his voice came out in a croak.

“All the time,” was Peter’s soft reply.

 

 

Thomas’ heart pounded painfully in his breast.


	12. The Yorkshire Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas competes in his most difficult race yet.  
> Meanwhile, an unexpected guest crashes a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this took a while. This is a bigger chapter. Warnings include **period typical homophobia and minor blood**.

Once Thomas started winning horse races, he didn’t seem capable of stopping. It was absolutely shocking to watch an untrained jockey soar through the ranks on a horse better suited for battle than racing. The papers were having a field day, and who could blame them? The people of England adored an underdog, and after he ludicrous life that Thomas had already lead, he was positively an icon for the bridge between upper and lower class. He had their blood, but not their sensibilities. His hands were lined with callouses, but moved with fluid dexterity through the pomp and circumstance of the seasons. He was both part servant and part master. By allowing the people of England to see him, Thomas poked a sharp hole through the muslin fabric that was so usually draped over the inner lives of the nouveau riche. He did not pretend to be above scandal, and so because of that was impervious to scandal. The news of the Dark Horse, once hushed up in the papers by Crawley money, was now completely forgotten to make way with the news that Thomas was competing in the English Triple Crown. He made it into the top three in the first leg at the 2000 Guineas Stakes, and placed second at The Derby. This left only the St. Leger Stakes, which served as the final race of the Triple Crown. Should Thomas win, should he even place in the top three, it would be a massive honor for both the Crawley family and the entirety of County Grantham.

So the Crawley’s did the only thing they knew to do: they threw a massive party.

The night before the St. Leger Stakes, Downton Abbey was lit up like a roman candle. Guests had been called in from near and far, with the result of a stream of motorcars lining up to the front door where the footmen Andrew and Moseley made to receive them. Peter watched entranced as gilded ladies in glittering gowns and gentlemen wearing silken black tophats created a stream from the door of the entrance hall to the many salons. Lady Grantham was ravishing in pink and gold, kissing the cheek of every noblewoman she encountered and welcoming them just as graciously as she’d welcomed him months prior. Lord Grantham seemed ten years younger, spritely as he spoke to men he hadn’t seen in a day and an age while Tiaa threaded her way through to his feet. Lady Mary and Lady Edith both seemed to be enjoying their socializing, with Tom Branson and Bertie taking their fair share of the guests. In the middle of it all, like a peacock upon her nest, sat the Dowager Countess of Grantham. She no longer had the strength to stand for long periods of time, but it was no matter. Instead, she allowed people to pay court to her like she was the Queen of England, and made pleasant small talk with Lord and Lady Merton.

All in all, the only ones not socializing were Peter (who was hiding at the top of the gallery stairs) and Thomas (who was hiding in his room).

When the footman Andrew came huffing and puffing up the servants stairwell in an attempt to fetch the pair of them, Peter excused him from his errand and took over the task himself. He’d felt a bit like a protective watchdog, keeping a close eye on the guests and monitoring Thomas’ bedroom door. Thomas didn’t like to socialize, and neither did he. They were more solitary creatures, and it showed in their mannerisms when pressed.

Still, Peter knocked on Thomas’ bedroom door and opened it to beckon him down to the party.

Thomas sat at his vanity, seemingly transfixed as he stared at a pair of diamond encrusted cufflinks. They glittered in the light of his bedside lamp, throwing beautiful sparkling shadows onto blue floral wallpaper. Thomas glanced up, using his mirror to see who was at the door, and smiled when he found Peter staring.

Even now, so many months after meeting Thomas at Rustington, Peter could not fully comprehend just how beautiful the man was when he smiled.

“What do you want?” Thomas teased.

“I was asked to come fetch you,” Peter replied.

“‘I’m behaving badly,” Thomas mused, lacing up his cufflinks to check his hair one last time in the mirror. There was no need; he was pristine.

“You look very nice,” Peter said. This, of course, was a dull way of saying what he really wanted to: ‘you look delectably shaggable’.

Thomas just gave him a teasing smile. “You cured of malaria yet?”

“Almost,” Peter said. In truth, he would know nothing for certain until Dr. Clarkson did another blood draw next week.

This had been the pattern for the past several months. Peter had been formally diagnosed with malaria by Dr. Clarkson, who had then prescribed Peter regular doses of Quinine tablets. What would have once cost him a fortune was now made possibly by Bertie’s charity, so that as the months progressed Peter’s strength began to return to him. His muscles stopped cramping. He stopped aching all the damn time. Now, months later, Peter was truly starting to feel like himself again. The final test, however, would come from Dr. Clarkson’s blood work. That alone would signal him as ‘cured’ of malaria.

And the moment he was cured, Peter had decided it would be open hunting season on a certain delectable morsel of a man.

“Let’s go,” Thomas rose from his vanity and left his room, with Peter following out after him. They walked around the perimeter of the gallery hall towards the main staircase, only to pause so that they might glance down into the glittering hoards of guests that had come to call. It was rather surreal, to stare down at everyone and yet remain undetected. Peter almost felt like some kind vulture waiting for the kill, when in reality he was the one who was undoubtedly in danger.

“I’ve met a few of them,” Peter mused. Thomas listened intently. “I hope they don’t remember me.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Thomas said, laying a gentle hand upon Peter’s own on top of the railing. Peter wondered if Thomas could feel his jumping pulse.

Had it been anyone else, Peter would feel slightly irritated at the concept. But Thomas was far from condescending. He understood Peter’s fears intimately, as well as the danger that he was in. Thomas was in danger too, and perhaps a little more so given all the awful things that had occurred at the Dark Horse last year. If Thomas wasn’t worried, then Peter shouldn’t be either.

They would be fine, so long as they were together.

 

There were many people in attendance for tonight’s party, some of which Peter knew and some of which he didn’t. Certain people, like Lord Gallfrey and Lord Howard, Peter did his best to stay away from. Other people like Lord Merton and Lord Worthburn were so old that you could have a conversation with them and they wouldn’t remember it ten minutes later. In order to keep himself entertained, Peter stuck close to Thomas who was much less a social butterfly than he. Together, the pair of them were able to amuse themselves with gossip, poking fun at each of their guests in turn before being sussed out by Lady Mary and forced to socialize.

Dinner was called for at eight, and offered a wide spread of delicious food served a la Russe. Enormous flower filled vases made talking across the table slightly difficult, but offered a beautiful scene for an equally sumptuous meal. Soup with sherry came first, then fish followed by white wine. It was on this course that conversation truly began to take off.

“Are you quite prepared for the race tomorrow?” Lord Worthburn asked. Thomas gave the man a polite if short smile.

“I am, thank you,” he replied.

“Is it true that you’re not trained?” Lord Worthburn asked. This gave pause to other conversations, for training was given when it came to jockeys. After all, the sport of horse racing was perilous and required great skill.

“It is.” Thomas took a small sip of wine before saying, “If I fail, it will be my own fault.”

The others chuckled that mild, un enthused chuckle which made Peter want to scream. There was no true laughter here, and certainly no funny jokes. There wasn’t even anything particularly funny about what Thomas had said. This perhaps was why Peter had always been such a failure at socializing. He couldn’t stand pretending.

“Thomas has always been independent,” Lady Mary said.

“So we’ve heard,” another nobleman from across the table said. It was Lord Gallfrey, a pretentious and condescending man that Peter had known from his prior life as Lord Hexam. He sat next to his wife, a flighty and flittery creature that looked terribly nervous of speaking her mind. What was worse, Lord Gallfrey’s favorite pall Lord Howard. The pair of them were absolute tits when together. Mercifully for Peter, it seemed that neither could remember him, but every so often Lord Howard would glance at Peter only to narrow his eyes.

“I say,” Lord Howard paused, clearly troubled by Peter’s visage. “I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we? You look terribly familiar, sir.”

Peter gave a dark smile; he was in danger of betraying his true feelings with every word that he spoke: “I have a familiar face, I dare say.”

“You remind me of a man I knew several years before,” Lord Howard explained. “ A Lord Hexam.”

“Can’t say I know him,” Peter lied. Three seats down, Bertie bristled at the insinuation.

“There wasn’t much to know,” Lord Gallfrey sneered, rolling his eyes. “He was funny in the head.”

“John-” Lady Gallfrey tutted, laying her gloved hand atop his own upon the table. “We should speak in kindness and pity, not cruelty.”

But it seemed that Gallfrey didn’t know how to talk if he wasn’t talking cruelly. “My wife is more charitable than I am, or so my family tells me. I just prefer the word soft.”

“Women keep us well,” Lord Howard said.  
There was something ugly in those words. Something that seemed to insist that Lord Howard knew more about Thomas and Peter than he was letting on.

Lord Howard stared at Peter, unflinching as he took a small sip of wine. Peter felt acid in the back of his throat.

“Indeed-!” Lord Worthburn was just prattling on, too old and senile to realize all the tensio at the table. “To the glory of women!” At this, he offered up a toast with a wrinkled hand that so that everyone was forced to do the same lest they be seen as ungenerous.

Peter jumped, shocked at the sudden sensation of someone holding his hand beneath the table.

Thomas, sitting next to Peter, had somehow managed to defy the entire room by sneaking the hand not clutching a wine goblet under the table. Even as they toasted women, Thomas held Peter’s hand.

It was a strong and yet beautiful reminder that Peter was no longer alone in these struggles. That Thomas understood implicitly why such things rattled him. After all, they rattled Thomas too.

“I say-” Lord Worthburn spoke to Thomas again once everyone had lowered their glasses. “You’re not settled yet, are you old boy?”

But this was childish. Lord Worthburn had to know that Thomas wasn’t married, or even engaged. He might be old but he wasn’t an idiot. So why was he asking if he knew otherwise.

Thomas licked his lips, letting go of Peter’s hand beneath the table. “No I’m a bit busy for marriage.”

“So we’ve heard,” Lord Gallfrey sneered. No one made to challenge him, though Lady Mary stiffened in her seat for a second before relaxing again.

“Well I knew your grandfather very well,” Lord Worthburn said. His voice was warm, but stern. “And he’d be damned determined to see you settled if he were still alive. The Crawley line is an ancient one, and must continue!”

A few people were generous enough to offer a round of “Here, here.” Thomas smiled, but it came out more like a wince.

“Never to fear, my sister Mary has given birth to the next heir. George.” Thomas glanced at Lady Mary, who gave the tiniest nod of happiness at her own fortune. She was right to be glad over the whole affair; Peter had run into George often while staying at Downton. The little boy was slightly pompous and maybe even spoiled, but he was also a delight and it was clear that Thomas and Lady Mary both adored him.

“But surely you’ll want children of your own,” Lord Worthburn said. “Why, I have eight children and they keep me young and spry!”

“If that is their job, I fear they have been derelict in their duties,” Said the Dowager Countess. Always trust her to find room for a jab. Fortunately, Lord Worthburn seemed to have selective hearing and carried on happily eating his halibut.

“Well, I have Arion,” Thomas tried to steer the conversation as best he could towards safer topics. “He’s practically a baby himself.”

“Oh such a tiddle,” Peter tased.

“It’s true,” Thomas said. “The other day, he nearly took Tom’s head off…” Thomas paused, eyes narrowing as he examined Tom Branson across the table. “Though maybe that was deserved.”

But the minor squabbles of the Crawley family were suddenly swooped up in an ugly bout of prejudice. Where Thomas might take issue with Branson over deeper issues, Worthburn and Gallfrey seemed to think the true problem was that Branson was Irish.

Clearly the worst of sins.

“I’ve never known a horse to like an Irishman,” Gallfrey said.  
Branson bristled, cheeks suddenly turning hot pink. Instead of seeming satisfied, Thomas was suddenly ashamed. He doubled back on his own words, suddenly stern with Gallfrey who up until now had been running ramshod over the conversation.

“Really?” Thomas carefully cut his halibut into tiny bites, his knife work suddenly sinister against his plate. “Mr. Colton, our groomsman, is Irish. He’s incredibly gifted with the horses.” He took a small bite, only to stare at Gallfrey with obvious challenge.

 _Fight me with words, if you feel lucky,_ Thomas seemed to be saying.

Gallfrey just doubled down, too ignorant to know when he was fighting a losing battle. Between them, Branson just watched entranced.

“A miracle if I’ve ever heard one,” Gallfrey said, “He must ply them with whiskey.”

“Yes well, sometimes we must drink to endure unwanted company.” Every word that Thomas spoke was layered with acid. To mark his point, he took up his wine glass and without breaking eye contact with Gallfrey took a long sip.

Gallfrey went white, unable to deny the criticism in Thomas’ voice. The table suddenly fell quiet, everyone aware of the tension at the far end.

When Thomas had clearly decided that Gallfrey had suffered in silence long enough, he turned his attentions to Branson who frankly was slightly gleeful.

“Tell me, Branson, haven’t you tripled our estate assets these past years?” Thomas said.

“In fact, I have,” Branson declared.  
And with that, the conversation was saved from Gallfrey’s scepticism and ignorance.

 

~*~

 

Thomas was utterly grateful to have his dinner party over with. Undressing, he flung his white tie across the room like it were a snake attempting to go for the jugular. He relaxed upon his bed, closing his eyes momentarily as he inwardly reflected on all that had been said and done.

What an utter load of crock. Why were people from his rank always so senile or selfish?  
Lord Gallfrey had been an absolute pillock. Thomas would have to ask tomorrow who he was friends with and cut that union off at once. The less he saw of the man around his dining room table, the better.

Then there was Lord Worthburn, who was frankly so old it was a little ridiculous. Thomas had to wonder, when he was old would he act just as silly? He tried to imagine himself, graying and senile, babbling on about how things had been ‘back in his day’.

That thought made him smile, but it was interrupted by the sound of a gentle knock upon his bedroom door.

“Come in,” Thomas drone. The door opened to reveal, of all people, Carson. The man looked oddly determined, as if he’d made up his mind to speak to Thomas and wouldn’t be budged from the subject.

Thomas sat up in bed, unnerved.

“What’s happened?” Thomas asked.

“Nothing has happened, Lord Downton,” Carson seemed slightly annoyed that Thomas would immediately suspect foul play. “I merely wished to have a word with you, if you were agreeable.”

But Thomas wasn’t agreeable. He didn’t want to have a word with Carson, now or ever. The fact that Carson was now standing in the door of his bedroom, unwilling to leave him alone, made Thomas feel like he was being stalked by some type of bear.

Still Peter had urged Thomas to behave calmly. To not let Carson see his fear. So Thomas replied like he would to any other man, as if he was speaking to Mrs. Hughes or Bates.

“Well I’m just getting ready to go to bed so,” Thomas said. “So unless it’s urgent-”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” Carson cut across.

Suddenly Thomas was back to square one. What should he say now to make Carson go away?

“Urgent how?” Thomas asked.

“Urgent in that we need to speak, and you refuse to,” Carson said.

He took a deep, shaky breath, remembering Peter’s words and confidence. Carson was refusing to let him go to bed when he had an enormous task ahead of him tomorrow. That, in and of itself, was slightly rude. Thomas could use that to his advantage.

“Mr. Carson,” Thomas spoke as if to a petulant child. “Tomorrow is a very big day for me and the family. I need to rest, and rest well, if I’m to perform the task expected of me. Now is not the time for us to discuss anything.”

“And when will be the time?” Carson was getting annoyed, and it showed in his voice. “Tomorrow? The day after? How about the day after that? Or perhaps a week? Or a month? Or even a year-”

Thomas let out a long, exasperated sigh. Carson paused, noting Thomas was at the end of his patience.

“You treat me like I’m a pest,” Carson said.

“Mr. Carson, when you are able to have this conversation with me without accusing me of treating you like a pest everytime I disagree with you, then we will continue speaking. Until then, I do not have the time nor the energy to waste on you. Goodnight.”

The words that burst from his mouth did not even sound like Thomas. It was the influence of Peter, and it shocked Mr. Carson into silence. It was as if Thomas had slapped him.

“... Thomas-” Mr. Carson tried to speak again.

“I said goodnight,” Thomas snapped.  
Carson’s expression was murderous.

Unable to deny Thomas’ station in the house, and the superiority that it held, Carson stepped out of Thomas’ room and gently closed the door. For all the softness in his movements, it was still like he had slammed it.

 

~*~

 

The next morning dawned on a cool crisp sky, with Thomas waking up close to six. Despite how he tossed and turned, trying to re-situate himself upon his many pillows, he found that he could not get comfortable.

_“You treat me like a pest.”_

Thomas rolled yet again, trying to close his eyes.

_“And when will there be time? Tomorrow? The day after? How about the day after that?”_

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Thomas spat to no one, sitting up bitterly in bed.  
He let out a sigh, struck up a cigarette, then made his way to the bathroom to get ready.

Given that he was not technically a trained jockey riding for any particular stable, Thomas did not as of yet own silks. As a result, he wore cream riding breeches, along with a fine red ashby show coat. He looked more like a toff going for a ride than a jockey trying to win a race, but Thomas contented himself. He frankly didn’t care whether he won or lost, which made this race all the more amusing. Everyone else was sweating, while he was having a good time.

Though of course he knew that no one would be up yet besides the staff, Thomas headed out of his room and down the main stairs. He decided that he would go visit Arion and perhaps take him on a short ride to get him warmed up for today’s race--

“It was wrong of her to do what she did.”  
Thomas jumped, shocked out of his skin to be approached when he’d thought himself alone. Looking back up at the gallery floor, Thomas saw his mother in a silk housecoat watching him from the railing.

“The Duke’s wife,” Cora explained. As she spoke, she walked down the main stairs till she and Thomas were before one another again. Her hair hung in a long messy brown braid over her shoulder. “I always wanted to tell you that last year, but I felt if I gave you an inch you’d take a mile. You were so angry at all of us.”

“What on earth are you doin’ up?” Thomas asked.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Cora said.

“Why not.”

“I was scared about today. About the race. I’m afraid you’re going to get hurt.”

“Oh mum,” Thomas sighed, “I’m not going to get hurt. I’ll be alright. Arion won’t let me get hurt.”

Cora smiled, but it was a tender and frail thing that looked quick to crumple into a frown. Clearly she didn’t believe him.

“... When you… well.” Cora looked down at her wrinkling hands, toying nervously with her fingers. “I felt my entire world fall of its axis. For so many years, I had to imagine you as dead just to sleep at night. To see you overdosing… to see you so sick, after all that we’d endured this past two years, it broke me.”

It was terrible, to see his mother so broken up over something that he couldn’t change. Something that he had made possible through his own selfishness and misery.

“I’m so sorry, mum,” Thomas whispered. “After Philip died, something broke inside of me and I didn’t know how to put it back together. I thought you were going to make me marry Elizabeth and-”

Cora blanched, taken aback by this queer stament. “Elizabeth Ringwall?” She wondered. Thomas nodded. “Oh- no. No she’s a sweet girl, but if I had to pick someone for you, it wouldn’t be her. She’s just a baby. Besides, you mustn’t tell her mother, but she’s rather fond of a certain Lord Hamish of Norfolk.”

Thomas had absolutely no idea who Lord Hamish of Norfolk was, but he would take the secret to his grave.

“... Elizabeth loves her mother, you know,” Cora said. “Her mother treats her so well.”

Thomas was unsure of where this was going, but it felt mildly important that he listen.

Cora bowed her head. Why was her expression crumpling? Why did she look ready to cry and the drop of a pin?

“I failed you as a mother-” She whispered, her voice in a rush-

“No!” Thomas refused to let her finish her sentence. He pulled her close, holding her tightly so that she was suddenly crushed against him. “No that’s not true.”

“But you went so astray-” Cora whimpered. Her voice was muffled by his vest, but even so Thomas could tell that she was crying. Oh, how wretched it made him feel!

“That wasn’t your fault, mum-!” He pulled her back to cup her wet face in his hands. He wanted to press his positivity into her. To force her to be happy once again. To see his mother cry because of his own actions was just about as awful a punishment as Thomas could conjure.

“It was just the way things were,” Thomas said. “I made a mistake, I did stupid things. It’s over, it’s done. We can’t change it. I’m not going to try and run away anymore. I promise.”

Cora sniffled, wiping her eyes.

She seemed to be struggling to believe him, or rather struggling to believe that things would be alright. But his mother was inherently positive by nature, and so her dip in mood was starting to slowly recover itself naturally.

“Please,” She looked up at him with beautiful brown watering eyes. “Please be careful today. The Triple Crown is one of the most prestigious set of races in the world, and I couldn’t bear to put you through it if I thought… that you... “

But Thomas was not some selfish jockey trying to prove himself. He had no true claim to fame in horse racing, he just wanted to have fun. He wasn’t afraid of losing, and in that he knew he would not lose. He knew when the time came, he’d be willing to step aside if it meant keeping safe.

“I would rather endure the embarrassment and shame of losing than give you another reason to cry,” Thomas swore. Cora smiled, touched. “I’m not going to put you through a heartache for the sake of some stupid cup. We’ve got enough silver in the pantry.”

Cora leaned in, and this time embraced him not out of fear but out of love.

“Thank god you inherited my mother’s brains,” She whispered. In his mother’s arms, Thomas felt safe and loved for the first time in a long time.

 

~*~

 

The family was bound for a journey, taking the morning train to Suffolk so that they arrived relatively close to racing time. Arion had to be loaded onto the baggage cart, which was mildly terrifying for the train employees just trying to do their job. Newmarket Racecourse was utterly packed to the nines, with fans clustered around the stadium of the Rowley Mile Course. It was one mile six furlongs worth of straight turf. Several marking moments named ‘the Bushes’, ‘The Penultimate’, and ‘The Dip’ served as hills and bends for jockeys to have to run around. This was by far the largest race that Thomas had ever run. Statues of Bill Scott, a jockey with the most wins to his name, could be seen as the main crowd hassled past. Last year’s winner was a horse named Coronach, who was posed as the ‘horse of the century’. This was his last year, and soon he would be retired to stud. As a result, many men were haggling with Coronach’s owner to see if they might be able to breed their own mares.

The Crawley family clustered around Thomas, now carefully tending to Arion, waiting for the jockey gate to be opened so that riders might line up at the starting point. Some were taking interviews, some were kissing their wives, but Thomas alone seemed to be devoted to his horse. He took his time, brushing Arion’s coat and giving him gentle kisses upon his muzzle.

“Oh my darling,” Cora shivered in the morning air, a few gray strands of hair blowing loose from her intricate knots. “Remember what you promised me?”

“I will,” Thomas assured her. He embraced her tightly once again, kissing her upon the cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to me or to Arion. You have my word.”

Satisfied, Cora stepped back to allow the others to impart their well wishes. Perhaps emboldened by last night, Tom Branson stepped forward and carefully shook Thomas’ hand.

“Thomas,” Tom didn’t seem capable of saying more, but that was more than enough.

Mary was next, hugging and kissing him upon the cheek, “Such good luck,” she said to him. “All the best luck in the entire world to you.”

Then there was Edith, hugging him before Mary even got a chance to let go, so that he was effectively squashed between his sisters.

“You’ll be wonderful,” Edith praised. “You know what you’re doing, you’re a natural!”

“We’re all behind you!” Bertie added over Edith’s shoulder.

“Alright, alright-!” Thomas began to yowl, forcing his sisters to let go of him before he was suffocated under their love. They let go, both of them grinning mischievously.

Robert watched his children with pride, offering his hand for Thomas to shake. “The best of luck, my boy.”

But Thomas did not want to shake his father’s hand like a proper bred Englishman. He wanted to hug him. So he did, throwing his arms around his father’s neck. Robert stumbled back in slight surprise.

“Alright-” Robert chuckled in his ear, patting him tenderly upon the back. “Let’s not be silly in front of the women.”

“Shuttup and hold me,” Thomas replied. Robert laughed more heartily than before.

When they finally pulled back. Robert was beaming with pride. “You’ll do marvelously,” Robert said. “I want you to win for our family. To bring home the gold. Nothing but gold, do you hear me?”

Thomas just snorted. “It doesn’t matter, da’. It’s just for fun. But if I can bring home gold then I will.”

Robert was contented by this. He stepped back, linking arms with Cora. They were two proud geese observing their three squabbling ducklings.

“Now Thomas, stand up straight,” Mary commanded. “You don’t have a proper uniform so you’re going to have to make do with this blue and red arm band.”

She took it out of her purse to tie it tightly upon his neck.

“Jesus, Mary, you’re gonna choke me-” Thomas coughed out.

“Loosen it up a little!” Edith urged her, fighting to get her fingers underneath Thomas’ collar. This only proceeded to choke him more.

“Alright, alright, alright, ENOUGH!” Thomas yowled, leaping away from both women to take the kerchief off. He had to cough a bit for air.

“Here.” His savior came in the form of Peter, who had up until that moment been hiding in the back. Now, emboldened by everyone else getting their say, Peter finally stepped forward.

With dexterous hands, Peter took the kerchief and gently wrapped it around Thomas’ neck to tie it in a loose knot. He even fixed it upon Thomas’ throat so that the red and blue were best shown off. He looked suddenly like a cowboy on the trail of some western robber.

“Thank you,” Thomas said. Peter smiled, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

“So, here we are,” Peter said. “On the brink of success or ruin.”

“Oh stop,” Thomas rolled his eyes, “It’s not even that important. It’s just a race.”

“But it’s fun to be dramatic,” Peter teased. “If you win, you deserve a prize say… a portrait of Arion?”

“Deal.” Thomas shook Peter’s hand to seal the transaction. “And if I lose?”

“Well, I may still paint him,” Peter mused. “He’s very beautiful, you know.”

And Thomas agreed, but there was something odd about the way that Peter said it. Like he wasn’t really talking about Arion.

“I’m amazed, you know,” Peter said. “At how wonderful he is.”

“You should tell him that,” Thomas said.

“If I start I won’t be able to stop,” Peter replied.

Grinning, Thomas scuffed a bit at the gravel underfoot. “... You cured of malaria yet?”

“Not officially, but I’m up to snuff,” Peter said.

“That a promise?” Thomas teased. Peter just winked in response.

“Keep asking and you’ll find out,” Peter said.

“Peter-!” Thomas was flustered at the insinuation. In front of his family of all places! But the others were completely clueless, unaware of the reasons why Peter was speaking so queerly.

But the sound of a horn was being blasted, a sort of warning bell to all jockeys that they needed to get to the race track and into their designated start positions.

“I better go,” Thomas said. He mounted Arion and taking the reins to lead him towards the entrance to the track. Peter reached out and took Thomas’ saddle in hand, holding onto the bridle.

“... See you on the other side,” Peter said.

“On the other side,” Thomas agreed. Without another word, he rode off.

 

 

 

The line up for the St. Leger Stakes was frankly a little unnerving. Fifteen jockeys all wearing flamboyant silks were made to line up. Their horses were jittery, wary of getting close to one another while the announcers demanded quiet from the audience. Jockey’s were making last minute checks to their horses; Thomas carefully tugged at the buckle under his chin and patted Arion fondly upon the neck.

Arion snorted, stamping his enormous hoof.

“Is that a horse or a tank?” The jockey wondered, sneering at Arion’s formidable size. He was by far the largest horse on the track.

“For your sake you better hope it’s a horse,” Thomas shot back.

The jockey just sneered, leaning down to whisper into his own horse’s hear. “Don’t listen to him, Salmon. You’re better.”

Thomas was taken aback. “Your horse’s name is Salmon?” He gawked. “What kind of a name is that?”

“It’s Salmon-Trout, you swine!” The jockey snapped.

“Oh well that just makes it all better!” Thomas sneered. “How could anyone possibly pick a better name for a horse than Salmon fucking Trout. What’s his middle name? Grouper?”

The jockey looked ready to eat him alive. On Thomas’ other side, however, a man was laughing atop a beautiful bay mare. Thomas recognized this horse at once, for she had placed first in all the races that Thomas had competed in.

“You are Thomas, right?” The jockey spot with a French accent, which was rather odd given that this was an English race. “Thomas Crawley, Viscount Downton.”

“That’s right,” Thomas said.

“I am Henri Jelliss,” Henri said. “I ride for Viscount Astor. You have been nipping my heels for a while now.”

But instead of being annoyed by this, Henri offered his hand to shake. Thomas accepted, slightly confused. The French were so peculiar.

“After I beat you again, let me introduce you to an old trainer of mine. Alec Taylor Junior. You need his help.”

“Is that so?” Thomas asked. “Who says I won’t beat you today?”

“You look more like a trout than that horse, when you’re flopping around on top.”

“Yeah?” Thomas sneered, his voice rising in tone. “Come a little closer, let me slap you with my fin.”

But their conversation was broken by yet another jockey lining up into the final open slot. “Come on Sandwich!” The jockey praised, patting his horse’s neck fondly. “That’s a boy.”

“... Sandwich?” Thomas wondered aloud. “Am I the only fucking person in this line who knows how to name a horse-?”

“No.” Henri smiled. He gently stroked his horse’s lean neck. “Mine is named Book Law.”

Well that was hardly worth the applause, but it was certainly better than Salmon Trout and Sandwich.

The horn sounded, a stern reminder than the race was about to begin. The stands were cheering, waving little flags in support of their racers. Thomas lowered himself in the saddle, clenching Arion’s reigns with tight fists. The horses were starting jitter, nervous with knowing what was coming next.

“Good luck, fish boy,” Henri jeered at Salmon Trout’s rider, who flushed angry red. “Even Crawley is better off than you, and he’s not even trained.”

“His name’s not Crawley,” The jockey shot back. “It’s _Barrow_.”

Thomas whipped about, nearly getting whiplash in his neck from turning so fast. The jockey seemed to realize he’d gone a step too far.

But there was no time to argue.  
The gun went off, and the race was on!

 

~*~

 

  
The sound of the gun going off resulted in a tirade of screaming and hysteria. The Crawleys, clustered together up in the stands, were just as exuberant as their fellows. As Thomas went charging past. Mary waved a little Downton flag and cheered her twin on. Peter’s eyes were locked upon Thomas as he charged past his opponents; by god, how strong he was!

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that just now,” Bertie warned.

“Notice what?”

“Keep asking and you’ll find out? You think I can’t put two and two together?” Bertie asked.

“Maybe,” Peter refused to budge, “But you’re getting twenty-two instead four.”

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that,” Bertie grumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

“Hush, the both of you-!” Edith craned her neck, desperate for a better view as Thomas raced along the track. “I can’t hear the announcer.”

But this was ridiculous; the man was shouting into a microphone so that his voice was amplified over the entire arena. If Edith couldn’t hear him from this distance, she needed to get her ears checked.

 **“ARION IS STILL IN FRONT WITH BOOKLAW TAKING UP THE CHARGE! THESE BEASTS WERE BORN OF THE WIND!”** The announcer howled.

“God, what if he loses?” Lord Grantham wondered from the front. “What will we say to the papers?”

“If he loses, you will accept with grace and humility,” Lady Grantham scowled at her husband’s petulant nature. “And you will remember he’s not even trained!”

“We need to get him a trainer!” Lady Mary said.

“I agree with Mary,” Branson added. “This is too dangerous for Thomas to attempt solo.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over all of them: **“ARION IS STILL IN THE FRONT, BUT BOOKLAW IS RIGHT ON HIS HEELS, MOUNTING HER REVENGE FROM THE RIGHT. SHE WILL NOT BE STOPPED! SHE IS A FIGHTING MACHINE!”**

“God I wish that horse would go lame,” Lord Grantham complained.

“Robert, hush,” Lady Grantham snapped.

 

 

~*~

 

  
This was by far the most insane thing he’d ever done. Thomas was past flying. He was, at this point, merging with the wind to thin out into nothingness. Arion had never gone this fast- never!

And still, he had company!

“THOMAS!”

Thomas looked to his left, barely able to hear Henri’s voice over the wind whistling in his ears. They were neck and neck, both their horses straining to outpace the other.

“GO AWAY!” Thomas shouted. “I’M CONCENTRATING!”

“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO WIN THIS, ENGLISH BOY!” Henri shouted back.

“YEAH?! AND YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE FROGGY FRENCHY?!” It was a childish insult, and one born out of desperation.

“EXACTEMENT!” Henri replied, and though he spoke in French Thomas knew exactly what he was saying.

Forgetting Henri, Thomas pressed himself flat to Arion’s neck, “TEAR HIM APART ARION!”

Horse and rider were one, and Arion let out a whinny of anger as he surged forward.

They took a furlough, then the next. Arion was hitting the earth so hard that his hooves were churning up patches of grass every time they touched soil. Even so, Jelliss was refusing to budge. If one got ahead, the other krept up. They were neck and neck, with absolutely no give.

 **“OH, BOOKLAW DOESN’T LIKE THAT!”**  
The pair of them took the turn, still neck and neck though Arion was just slightly ahead now.

But the lead didn’t last for long. As the turn straightened out, Booklaw was able to inch her way past Arion’s lead so that Thomas was now in second place.

**“AH, THE TRIALS OF LOVE! WITH A FEMALE LIKE BOOKLAW, ARION JUST DOESN’T STAND A CHANCE! THE FIGHTING MACHINE HAS PUSHED PAST THE YORKSHIRE HURRICANE!”**

“Like hell she has!” Thomas yelled in Arion’s ear. “You gonna let that French broad show you up?! She’s not even that pretty!”

Arion was practically foaming at the mouth from the pace.

 **“THEY’RE NECK AND NECK NOW!”** The home stretch was before them. **“IT’S THE FINAL STRETCH! IF ARION CAN SHAKE HER OFF, HE’LL BREAK BOOK LAW’S WINNING STREAK AND FINALLY DEFEAT THE FIGHTING MACHINE OF ASTOR!”**

Unable to shake each other, Henri and Thomas were still neck and neck with the finish line closing in. In that moment, nothing else existed in the world but the pair of them and their horses. Booklaw’s mighty flanks were dripping in sweat. Veins were bulging in Arion’s neck.

“YOU NOBLES THINK YOU CAN ‘AVE IT ALL!” Henri shouted “BUT I’VE WORKED ALL MY LIFE FOR THIS, AND I WON’T LOSE TO YOU NOW!”

**“WE’RE COMING UP ON THE END NOW! A FALL COULD BREAK A JOCKEY’S NECK!”**

Thomas suddenly glanced up as he drove past the stands for the final time, his eyes desperately searching for his family. He found them, each watching with flushed faces as they screamed and cheered. The only still one amongst them was his mother.

She was terrified. He could see it in her beautiful face.  
Thomas looked back at Henri, who was still focused solely on the finish line.

Henri wanted to win. Henri needed to win.  
… Henri deserved to win.

“Beat me,” Thomas said to Henri.  
Henri blanched, but did not fall back. Instead, he pushed forward even harder as Thomas jerked back slightly on Arion’s reigns.

It was only a little, but it was all that Arion needed to come in second.

 

 

The pair of them crashed over the finish line, their horses nearly hitting one another as they came to a screaming halt. Dirt, pebbles, grass, and confetti flew into the air as the crowd went wild and the announcer screeched into his microphone.

**“AND THAT’S IT! BOOKLAW HAS WON AGAIN WITH ARION COMING IN A TIGHT SECOND PLACE! FAIRWAY HAS COME UP IN THIRD! WITH A TIME OF THREE MINUTES FOURTEEN SECONDS, THAT BEAUTIFUL GIRL IS GOING NOWHERE! THE HURRICANE OF YORKSHIRE TRIED TO STOP THE FIGHTING MACHINE BUT EVEN HE DID NOT STAND A CHANCE! NOTHING CAN BEAT THE BEAUTY OF ASTER!”**

Henri and Thomas panted vigorously atop their horses, sweat dripping from every pore on their bodies. The fans were dismounting the stands now, with other jockeys swarming them along with photographers for the papers. Someone had cracked open a champagne bottle, and was spraying it into Henri’s face. Flowers were being flung from the stands, falling like multicolored rain upon their heads.

“Pourquoi?” Henri asked. Mercifully, that was one word in French that Thomas understood.

“...Cause you deserved it more,” Thomas said. “You wanted to win… I just wanted to have some fun with my best friend.” Thomas gently patted Arion’s neck. The horse quivered, overstimulated from the race.

Henri grinned, reaching out and shaking Thomas’ hand again. Both of them were dripping with sweat so that their grip was unusually slick.

“That is a beast, you ride,” Henri praised. “He truly is the ouragan!”

But Thomas had no idea what an ouragan even was.

Content with his win, Henri trotted off atop Booklaw. The horse was being loaded with praise, even more so than the jockey who rode her. Everyone wanted to touch Booklaw. To get a picture with the greatest horse of the St. Leger. Content to be left behind, Thomas dismounted from Arion and patted his neck. Arion’s eyes were bulging as he panted for oxygen.

“Good boy,” Thomas praised. “You did so well. I’m so proud of you-” He even leaned in to kiss Arion gently upon the jaw.

“Oh Thomas-”

He glanced around, surprised to find his family coming down from the stands. Cora was in front, and it was she who hugged him first. Normally, Arion did not like to be approached by so many people at once, but it seemed that he was too tired to put up a fight.

“I’m so sorry,” Cora said.

“Don’t be,” Thomas was all smiles as he pulled back from his mother, wiping the sweat from his face with his kerchief. “We did fine.”

“You got second!” Robert was utterly ecstatic, bouncing upon the balls of his feet as he flung his arms about Thomas. He was beaming, practically raving in his delight. “I can’t believe it! My own son! My heir! Silver medal winner in the St. Legers! I’ve born a champion! I gave birth to a champion! A true champion!”

Behind Robert’s back, Cora was growing a little sulky.

“You didn’t give birth to anyone,” She muttered under her breath. “Champion or not.”

Robert didn’t hear her, too delighted to get the camera’s attention as he pulled Thomas close. Bulbs were flashing, the acrid smell of sulfur in the air as pictures were taken. A man in a tweed suit pushed his way forward to offer Thomas a trophy that looked rather like an enormous silver shield. In the middle, a beautiful flowering sun was engraved above the phrase: “LADBROKES ST. LEGER STAKES 1927”.

Robert helped Thomas to hold up the shield so that more pictures could be taken.

“My son!” Robert just could not stop beaming. “Second place in St. Legers! And Arion too-!” At this, Robert reached over and patted Arion fondly upon the neck. Arion snorted in warning, but was still much too tired to put up a better fight.

But their little love circle was still not yet complete. A new man was approaching, wearing a flat cap and a handsome tweed coat. His beard was full and white, his mustache matching. Despite looking well off, he had this rugged quality to him that seemed to insist he wasn’t afraid of getting dirty. His boots certainly were dirty, with horse shit and mud clinging to the tips and heels.

“Thomas Crawley?” The man asked.

“Yes?” Thomas wiped his face and neck again with his colored kerchief, wishing he could throw himself into a lake for all the sweat dripping off his body.

“I’m Mr. Alec Taylor Junior. I’m a thoroughbred racehorse trainer,” Junior introduced himself. So it seemed this was the famous horse trainer Thomas had heard about. “My horse Booklaw won today, but you’ve been coming in second for the entire season. Given that you’re not trained, I’m quite impressed. Have you considered taking up a trainer?”

“Well actually, this is more of a hobby than anything,” Thomas gestured from himself to Arion. “So no, I haven’t.”

“Well-” Junior reached into his jacket pocket to offer Thomas a calling card. “Feel free to call me if you ever change your mind-”

But before Thomas could thank Junior for his card and be on his way, Robert burst into their conversation with the frenzied air of a man being denied the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“My son’s being ridiculous!” Robert pleaded with Junior, who cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Of course he wants a trainer! We’d love to have you at Downton Abbey to sup!” He took the calling card from Thomas, holding it to his breast like it were his own medal.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Junior said. He gave Thomas a small smile. “Let me see off my jockey, and perhaps we can talk about your son’s future.” Junior shook Robert’s hand, tipped his hat to Cora, and left back the way that he’d come where Henri was now answering questions for photographers.

Cora looked ready to scold Robert, but Robert was completely delighted with himself, turning on Thomas to bounce upon his heels as he grabbed his son by the shoulders.

“That’s the Wizard of Manton!” Robert practically squeaked, “He can make any horse a success! He runs Manton stables! I’ve never met him in person! Golly gum drops, what a delight! Today is my fourth favorite day!”

“Fourth?” What a queer thing for Robert to say, Thomas thought.

“Oh yes,” Robert nodded sagely. “My first three favorites are the birth dates of my children. But today is the fourth! It’s the birth of a new legacy!” Robert thrust his fist into the air. “Crawley Jockeys! The pride of Yorkshire!”

“Robert,” Cora all but sucked the wind out of his sails with her scolding tone. He dropped his hand, as if suddenly realizing just how silly he’d been behaving.

“Thomas is the one who needs to make these decisions,” Cora chided him. “If he doesn’t want to be trained, then that is his decision!”

“Oh, let him have fun, mum,” Thomas sighed. To be honest, he’d not been keen on taking a trainer, but now it seemed that he didn’t have a choice. All that Thomas could do was lift up his trophy, smile for the cameras, and give Arion a kiss on the cheek.

It was this scene that the camera’s caught, and the very next day it featured on the front page with beaming reception: _“Viscount Downton wins silver; Arion wins kiss”._

 

 

~*~

 

  
Despite Thomas’ insistence that he did not want another damn party, Robert Crawley would not be budged. The return from Suffolk was heralded by villagers waving flags when they passed. Thomas was a good sport, waving for the villagers, but as soon as they were back in the house all he wanted was a bath and a nap. He wasn’t picky about the order. Peter was amused when Lord Grantham demanded that Thomas be sociable, only to have Thomas fall asleep on the couch in the library. Lord Grantham kept trying to wake Thomas up, only to finally give in and let him sleep by the fire. When Thomas awoke from his nap, he took a bath and then promptly went back to bed. In the time that Thomas spent recovering, Lord Grantham spent creating a dinner for their celebration. It was to be personal, private, with only family and a few close friends coming to dine. The only true ‘guest’ would be Sir Alec Young Junior, the trainer who had proved his merit as the Wizard of Manton. Lord Grantham was absolutely giddy for his company, which Peter found oddly adorable.

The night of Thomas’ party, Peter was once again sent to fetch Thomas who was taking far too long to do his hair. Thomas was many things, beautiful, charming, smart, kind, but he could also be slightly vain. If he got caught up looking at himself in the mirror, he could stay there for hours.

Peter knocked, opened Thomas’ bedroom door, and grinned at the sight of Thomas combing his already perfectly coiffed hair in the mirror.

“Times up, Goldilocks. You’re requested downstairs.”

“Started on my portrait yet?” Thomas teased.

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Peter carefully shut the door, giving them some privacy. It felt like he was coveting some precious jewel, being in private with Thomas while all the others waited outside. He wanted to paint a night sky with diamonds like these. He wanted to gather a gallery of cosmoses littered with privacy.

“Is it alright if I get some sketches?” Peter asked. “I know Arion’s not exactly friendly with me.”

But Thomas just laughed, a beautiful joyous sound like the chime of crystal. “He’s not friendly with anyone, Peter. That’s half the fun with him.”

It took Peter a moment to realize that he was smiling like an idiot. He had to struggle to get his expression under control lest Thomas think he was strange.

“I’ll make sure you can get close,” Thomas promised. “But you’ll have to wear your least loved trousers.”

Peter thought about making some silly joke regarding going trouser-less, but he found it impossible to do while Thomas looked so beautiful.

It was, of course, imperative for a person to understand that Thomas Crawely was always beautiful. He’d been beautiful when he’d invited Peter into Rustington. He’d been beautiful when he’d given him a Turner cut out of its frame. He’d been beautiful when he’d bathed Arion in the river, and he was beautiful now in a fine tux.

It was only that Peter had never allowed himself to recognize that beauty because he hadn’t wanted to.

“You look quite nice tonight,” Peter mused.

“So do you,” Thomas said. Peter flushed. “But you probably already knew that.”

“I’m hardly Charles Farrell,” Peter said.

“No you’re much more handsome than him,” Thomas said.  
Ha! As if.

The pair of them made their way down the gallery hall towards the main stairs, taking their time so that their hands intermittently brushed against one another as they walked. So content, so peaceful was Peter that he for a moment his anxiety was totally lifted.

“Is it true that you let Booklaw win?” Peter asked.

“Her jockey won fair and square,” Thoams said.

“I hear you let him win because he wanted it more.”

But Thomas was full of secrets, and merely winked when Peter asked. “Well you know me,” he teased. “I overflow with generosity.”

But Peter could hear the sarcasm in Thomas’ voice. Why? Why was it joking material to insist that he was generous? He’d certainly been generous with Peter, helping him out of the cold and giving him food. He’d been generous with Henri Jelliss as well.

“You are generous,” Peter stopped, forcing Thomas to stop too, so that the pair of them were stick mid-way down the stairs. In the background, laughing and chattering floated up from the pink parlor. “I’m amazed more people don’t give you the time of day, but I think it’s because you and I are the same. People fear what they cannot understand or control. We exist outside the boundaries of normal society, so most people are not willing to grant us the leniency of a regular man.”

Thomas was captivated, Peter could tell. His beautiful blue eyes had grown misty. He took a short little fluttering breath, as if too taken aback to know what to say properly.

“You’re so wise, Peter,” Thomas whispered it, like it were a secret. Frankly, Peter thought he might be a little biased.

“Thomas, when you first met me I was eating molded vegetables out of a bin,” Peter reminded him. Thomas snorted, trying to hold back a laugh.

“Fair enough,” Thomas looked away, back down the stairs towards the party. “Come on, I can’t keep depriving them of you.”

Little did Thomas know that Peter felt the same way towards him.

 

 

~*~

 

 

The party was of course a smashing success, simply because Junior was the center of Robert’s attention and their guests were hardly malicious. Unlike before, Thomas did not have to be on guard for what he said and to whom. Instead, he allowed himself to listen to tales of races in days gone by. Lord Merton was kind, but his memory was starting to go a bit. Lady Merton would often butt in, helping him to remember details that had slipped him by. Robert wanted to talk about all things Arion, and how he might be improved upon. Thomas did not feel perfection could be improved, but apparently his opinion was in short supply around the table. Arion was many things to the rest of the Crawley family. “Perfectly wonderful” was not one of them.

After dinner, several guests went home. Lord and Lady Merton were the first, followed swiftly by the Dowager. This left only Junior, who was happy to talk late into the night about horses. To give the staff their time to clean and eat, their party moved from the dining hall to the library where Carson poured whiskey and Junior speculated about the grand mystery that was Arion.

“Arion is by far one of the fastest horses I’ve ever known,” Junior complemented. “But his speed hasn’t been utilized properly.”

“Well, how can we fix that?” Robert asked in between puffs of cigar smoke.

“First of all, this one needs to lose some weight if he’s to remain the rider,” Junior pointed to Thomas, who flushed hot pink at the insinuation that he was overweight.

He wasn’t the only one taken aback. Both Mary and Peter were quizzical.

“Ah yes, Thomas, the fat one in the family,” Mary sneered.

“Given that you are sitting on the opposite side of the room, I will assume you simply have not seen Thomas close enough to understand that he’s not fat,” Peter said. His tone was genial, but there was a sharp edge to his words which boded ill. Junior just grinned, rather callous when it came to horses and jockeys.

“Look, I’m not trying to say he’s a slob,” Junior drawled. “But he’s pudgy, and he needs to lose as much weight as possible in order for Arion to ride at his maximum speed. The fatter Thomas is, the more it’ll slow Arion down, it’s just basic math. He’s probably what… two hundred pounds? We need to get that down to around one forty.”

“Okay-” Peter set his glass of brandy aside. “Allow me to explain to you at length why what you just said was preposterous-”

But before Peter could unleash a tirade onto Junior (who was grinning as if delighted to go to war), a sudden strange noise broke the party atmosphere.

The doorbell was ringing. Not once, with pause, but several time to the point where it sounded as if someone was yanking the doorbell without cease.

Carson looked around, his bushy eyebrows knitted with wary concern. He wasn’t the only one to be taken aback. Andy set his platter of cigars aside, craning his long neck in order to look out the crack in the library door. All conversation ceased, as most heads swiveled around in the direction of the entrance hall.

Robert checked his watch. “It’s so late,” he mused, “And everyone we know is here besides mama. Surely it’s not her.”

“I will go see who it is myself, M’lord,” Carson dislike so much as a spoon being out of place, so someone calling near bedtime was downright infuriating for him. As Carson left, he allowed the library door to slowly creek open. Thomas stood up, tip toeing around his mother and Mary to watch Carson head towards the front hall. Who could it be, he wondered.

Thomas could not see around Carson’s massive frame when he opened the door, but he could certainly hear.

 _“Please!”_ A shrill voice was shouting from outside, _“We need to speak to Thomas-!”_

But instead of letting whoever was outside in, Carson suddenly slammed the door shut on the visitor and even locked it for good measure.

“Carson,” Even Robert had come to the door of the library, “Who is it?”

The front door bell was jingling wildly again.

“Some ruffians asking for Lord Downton,” Carson explained, walking in the direction of the telephone which sat in the outer hall, “I shall ring the police.”

“Wait-” Thomas pushed past his father, deciding to see who these ‘ruffians’ were for himself. His mind was racing with the possibilities. Who on earth could be calling so late at night, and with such clear urgency? Thomas did not know anyone in obvious peril, and so he truly was stumped as he unlocked the front door.

“Lord Downton- _Thomas_ -!” Carson tried to stop him, even throwing out a hand as if to pull him away from the door. But Thomas was too quick, and wrenched the door open.

 

He was shocked to find not one visitor, but a whole fleet of men upon his family doorstep. They were bedraggled and filthy, in ragged dresses with makeup streaming down their unkempt faces. The only ones that Thomas recognized were a tall forboding black man with rippling muscles and a shriveled creature that he held in his arms.

It was Jack and Louise from the Cavour.

“Sanctuary!” Jack blurted out, his American accent rough and gravelly from stress. “We seek sanctuary! The Cavour was raided-”

“Oh my god-!” Thomas all but grabbed Jack and Louise over the doorstep, ushering the entire group of bedraggled men inside where they dripped and shivered on the carpet. “What happened to him?!”

The Louise that Thomas had known, so spirited and snarky, was gone to be replaced by a paper doll that could easily drift away. He’d always been thin, but now he was deathly so. He looked like the victim of a war camp, pale and bloodless in Jack’s strong arms. Most telling of all, Louise’ skin was stretched to a waxy like complexion over his muscles and bones. As a result, he was more corpse than man. It seemed a sneeze would break him in half.

The rest of the men were in equally rough shape, though none of them were obviously dying. One was crying, supported on both sides by his fellows. They were each in women’s clothing, muddied and torn; blood speckled a few of them, a fair reminder of the bloody noses and swollen eyes that they sported. These men hadn’t just fled the Cavour, they’d run for their lives. Thomas had a feeling somewhere in London, there were a group of bloodied if concussed policemen.

Had others been arrested? He supposed the morning paper would tell them everything.

“What in the hell is going on?!” Junior had exited the library, intent to find out what was causing a disturbance to his evening, only to be greeted by the shocking sight of battered men in dresses and a black man leading the charge.

“If this offends you, then you can bloody well leave!” Thomas cursed, glaring over his shoulder at Junior. The man was visibly taken aback.

“They’re- he’s-” Junior gestured from Jack to the rest, “They’re in dresses!”

“Then leave!” Thomas screamed. Junior paled, stunned by Thomas’ ferocity.

Jack had no choice but to lay Louise upon the floor. He was exhausted, and in desperate need of rest. Upon Downton’s entrance carpet, Louise shuddered and moaned, convulsing every so often as if he was about to vomit.

“Mr. Taylor-” Thomas could hear Robert begging for forgiveness, “I don’t know what to say-”

But others were coming forward. In particular, Peter had pushed his way to the front of the crowd: “Let me through please- excuse me-” He brushed past Carson and Mary. When he saw Louise upon the carpet, he dropped to his knees and cradled Louise’ head in his hands, “Louise!”

“Louise, darling, can you hear me?” Thomas begged, popping Louise’ cheek with light taps in the hopes that it might stir him. His pulse was frighteningly sluggish. “Louise, open your eyes!”

Jack was sucking in breath after breath, slowly regaining himself. Water from outside ran in rivulets down his dark arms to pool upon the carpet below. The other men cowered around him, as if they were a flock of sheep and Jack their shepherd.

“He can’t eat, he can’t drink-” Jack swallowed, sucking in another breath. “He’s close to death. Something's terribly wrong with him-”

Peter had finally gotten Louise to open his eyes, but they were dazed and unable to focus on anything. Without warning, Louise heaved and vomited all over Thomas’ knee and the carpet. There were flecks of dark red, obvious signs of blood.

He needed a doctor, and quickly!

Thomas looked over his shoulder to Carson, who was standing white faced in the entry doorway. It was as if he’d been struck with a case of rigor mortis, unable to move a muscle.

“Carson, ring for the doctor!” Thomas said.

Carson did not move.

“Hey, Louise, look at me kiddo-!” Peter pressed his hand to Louise’ sweating forehead. “Christ, he’s burning up.”

“He’s been vomiting blood all day,” Jack said. “I can’t get him to stop, I tried to get him to drink some water but--” He was unable to continue speaking, helpless.

“Carson, please!” Thomas cried out, furious at Carson’s inability to move.  
Still, Carson did not move. His lip was curled at the sight of Louise upon the floor. It was as if he were a roach, not a human being.

“They ransacked the Cavour,” the crying man blubbered. “So many people got arrested and we didn’t know where to turn!”

“Louise started goin’ in and out,” another man continued on. He had an obvious Irish accent, with lips covered in smudged rouge. “We tried to take him to a doctor in London, but they just kept turning us away. As soon as they saw us, they wouldn’t let us in the door.”

“We’ve been running for our lives, for days!” A third said.

“We saw your picture in the paper,” the crying man whimpered. “Jack said you’d help. Please… Please help us.”

Thomas looked to Peter; his own expression was stony. Peter jerked up from the floor, stalking past Carson to grab the telephone in the far hall.

“Peter, ask for Dr. Clarkson!” Thomas called out. “At Downton Village Hospital, you remember? Tell him it’s an emergency!”

“Right!” Peter called back, before speaking in a rapid voice to the receiver.

Thomas pressed his own hand against Louise sweating temple, trying to fan him to bring him some sort of cool. He’d almost forgotten there was anyone else in the room until a presence behind him made him stiffen.

Though Thomas had not expected it, though he could not explain it, Alec Taylor Junior had not run away from the sight of homosexuals in the hall. Instead, he’d come to Thomas’ side, and even dropped to one knee to carefully feel at Louise’ pulse through his jugular vein.

“He’s not going to make it,” Junior muttered in dismay.

“We don’t know that,” Thomas spoke rapidly, as if the speed of his words might physically repel Junior’s own. “We can at least try-”

“Look at him, he’s half dead on the carpet,” Junior complained.

“Come on, Louise,” Thomas begged, caressing the man’s face with his hands. “Wake up for me, sweetheart. Please?”

Louise did not wake, his breathing shallow and his skin covered in a cold sweat.

“Sit him up,” Junior commanded. Thomas looked at the man, taken aback. Was he helping, or-?

“Sit him up!” Junior repeated, this time more forcibly. He took Louise under one armpit, with Jack taking the other. They hauled Louise into a half-sitting position, though frankly he was just slouched over into Jack’s arms.

“We need to get him into a bed,” Jack said.

“No, a bath first,” Junior ordered. “A cold bath. When horses get too hot, you spray them down, starting with the feet. We’ve got to lower his temperature if we want him to live.”

“Jack, can you pick him up?” Thomas asked. Wordlessly, Jack hauled Louise into his arms before staggering to his feet. Thomas and Junior followed, with Thomas keeping his hand pressed to Louise’ temple.

“Thomas-” It was his mother, breaking away from the crowd to stand at his side. She placed her hands upon his arm, bringing him to a pause. “This is very dangerous. If anyone were to find out he was here-?”

Thomas stared at her. Reproachful, Cora bit her lip then turned to Carson who was still in shock by the entryway.

“Carson, have Mrs. Hughes turn down the red room,” Carson commanded.

“But-” Carson spluttered, taken aback by Cora’s request. “But my lady-!”

“Carson, please!” Cora snapped, her tone firm and frigid. Carson bristled, visibly distressed at being chastised by the lady of the house.

“He’s on his way-!” Peter shouted from the side hall, running back to the staircase to pant at Thomas’ side. “Clarkson says get him in a bath and cool him off, then get him out of his wet things and put him in bed.”

“See? Told you,” Junior boasted.

Their motley crew headed up the stairs, leaving behind an entire gaggle of men from the Cavour along with Robert and Carson. Mary, Tom, Edith, and Bertie all seemed to want to help for whatever reason, and carried up the end meekly to watch as Mrs. Hughes bustled past them with her arms full of soft pink sheets.

“It’s going to be okay, Louise-” Thomas spoke rapidly as Mary opened the door to the red room to let Jack inside. Mrs. Hughes deposited the sheets in a shlump onto the bed before hurriedly turning on the lights and opening the door to the bathroom.

“...M-...Fine…” Louise mumbled, his lips too numb to correctly form the words.

“Bring him here-” Mary commanded to Jack, turning on the light to the bathroom and gesturing to the tub. Tom got there first, plugging the drain with a rubber stopper and turning on the taps so that water began to gush out. Bertie went to the cupboards, opening them to find several fluffy white towels. He tossed one into the tub where it began to soak and sink.

“Mary, get that towel soaking,” Tom said. She dropped to her knees, pulling off her dining gloves to press the towel into the water. “We’ll wrap him in it.”

“Right.”

Jack stooped over, and with Thomas’ help deposited Louise into the bath. Louise shuddered and groaned, his held lolling upon his shoulders. Mary and Tom struggled to cover Louise in the wet towel while Thomas wetted his own hand and used it to clean Louise’ face free of vomit and drool.

Slowly, Louise opened his eyes again. This time, he seemed slightly more able to focus.

“.... Thomasssss…” Louise slurred the word.

“You’re safe, Louise,” Thomas promised him. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw Peter helping Mrs. Hughes strip and re-make the bed.

“Don’t bother…” Louise croaked.

“Yes, I will bother!” Thomas snapped.

“We’re not going to let you die, baby,” Jack whispered. The edges of Louise’ thin bloodless lips twitched as if in a small smile.

“You’re sweet,” Louise’ voice was like a hiss, mumbled through numb lips and a heavy tongue. “Look at all you. Dressed up. Interrupted dinner… save a plate for me?”

“I’ll save anything you like,” Thomas begged. “Just don’t die, that’s all I ask.”

“Mmm,” Louise began to cough, first gently then a full out hacking gasp. Blood splattered upon his lips and neck.

“Christ-” Junior hissed, horrified at the sight. “That doctor better get here soon.”

“Have some water-” Edith yanked off her dinner gloves and cupped her hands beneath the tap, bringing it to Louise’ lips.

He took a tiny sip, only to regurgitate it at once so that he vomited again all over his chest.  
His vomit was full of blood.

Louise gasped for air, his breath rattling. Thomas held him as best he could, trying to bring him meagre comfort.

“It’ll be alright, Louise…” Thomas whispered in his sweaty ear. “It’ll be alright.”  
But everyone was staring with piteous gazes, many members of the family swapping looks with expressions of disbelief or pessimism. Edith laid her head upon Bertie’s shoulder so that he held her close. Mary took Tom’s hand, the pair of them watching silently as Jack and Thomas repeatedly washed Louise’ body with cold water.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Dr. Clarkson arrived shortly after Louise was put into the bath. Upon seeing Louise coughing up blood in his phlegm, Dr. Clarkson banished everyone from the room stating that Louise might have a contagious disease. Mary and Edith were already making plans to leave, talking to their prospective partners about returning to London and bringing the children with them. Edith didn’t even feel comfortable with Marigold sleeping in the nursery. She had Marigold brought into Bertie’s own bedroom, where she and Bertie slept side by side. The hour was growing increasingly late, and so without much of a dog in the fight Cora likewise retired to bed.

The last to leave was Alec Young Junior. Despite having the shit shocked out of him by a group of homosexual’s seeking sanctuary during a party, he still seemed to be calm and centered. He shook Robert’s and Thomas’ hand, told them he’d be in touch, and left without another word. This left Thomas, Peter, Robert, and Carson awake to deal with the trauma of their newfound guests.

Clustered in the library, the prostitutes tried to get warm by the fire. Meanwhile, Jack sat slumped in a visitor’s chair with a glass of whiskey in hand. It had been a peace offering by Robert, and one sorely needed.

“When did it start?” Thomas asked.

“... Weeks ago,” Jack sighed, eyes upon his whiskey as he rolled it carefully in his glass. “We had a visitor. He didn’t look well, but he wanted Louise. He never turns away a client, you know. After that, Louise started fallin’ apart. Wouldn’t eat. Tired all the time. Droppin’ weight like a stone.”

“He was never heavy set,” Peter said.

“Hackin’ up a lung, to the point where he couldn’t take clients. Then, a few days ago, the raid happened. He coughed up blood right in a policeman's face. The copper panicked. It was our only opportunity for escape, and we took it. Those that could run, ran with me. I carried Louise. We tried to take him to doctors but… one look at us and they all shut the door.” Jack paused to take another sip of whiskey.

“Then we saw your picture in the paper, and Louise said you’d help us. It said your house was Downton Abbey…. So all we had to do was head to Downton Village, and look for the big house. You weren’t hard to find.”

Jack looked up at Thomas with black, somber eyes full of exhaustion. “You’re our last hope, Thomas. We have nowhere else to go.”

“Well, I’m afraid you cannot stay here,” Robert warned.  
Jack did not look surprised, but dropped his gaze back to his whiskey.

But Thomas could not stand it. These men had run for their lives, been turned away by every help available, only to come here and be told there was no help as well? No, it would not happen. Thomas would not allow it!

“Would you excuse us, for just one moment,” Thomas said, in clipped but polite tones. With that, Thomas took his father by the arm, dragging him from the library out back into the entrance hall where the hallboy was now scrubbing vomit off the carpet.

Robert opened his mouth to desist, but Thomas spoke first.

“What are you saying?!” Thomas hissed, barely speaking above a whisper. “They can’t stay here?! Louise is dying! He’s vomitting up blood! We can’t just kick them out, like stray dogs! We have a civic duty-”

“Thomas, these men are wanted by the law-” Robert whispered back, trying to bring order.

“For being like me!” Thomas gestured to himself with shaking hands. He was on the verge of hysterics.

“For being prostitutes!” Robert hissed back.

“Dad, you know that’s not true!” Thomas whispered, shaking his head. “You know it!”

“Thomas, if the police find them here, we could all be implicated. I must protect my family above all else,” Robert whispered.

“Please, dad,” Thomas grabbed Robert by the hands, his eyes boring into his father’s own. “Please. I’m begging you… Don’t do this to them. Not when the world has already done so much. I’m begging you... “

For a moment, Robert seemed to be made of stone. Then, slowly, he melted in composure and expression to let out an exhausted sigh.

“... Alright…” Robert hung his head. “Fine. Louise may stay, but the others must go.”

“Fine, I accept that,” Thomas knew when to take a bargain. “But where-?”

“That is their affair,” Robert took Thomas’ shoulders in hand, squeezing them comfortingly. “We will not wish them ill, but we will bid them farewell.”

So now it was up to Thomas to relay the difficult news.

They returned to the library, Robert leading the way, to find Jack still staring into his whiskey while Peter kept him company. The other men from the Cavour were clustered around the enormous fire grate, trying to get warm and dry off. Each looked more frightened and pitiful than the last. In the far corner, guarding the whiskey and the decanter like his life was staked upon it, Carson watched their guests with wary mistrust. Thomas couldn’t even stand to look at the man; in that moment, he despised Carson for his apathy to Louise.

Jack looked around at the sound of the library door opening, and rose up to face Robert head on.

“I’ve spoken with my son,” Robert said. “And we’ve concluded that while Louise may stay here and recover the rest of you will need to seek shelter elsewhere. The danger to my family is too great to ignore, but I cannot deny that Louise needs sanctuary.”

Jack was dismayed but silent, setting down his whiskey upon the side table. The others looked more frightened than ever, shivering and desperate to stay by the fire.

“Might I offer a suggestion, Lord Grantham?” Peter spoke up.

“If you must,” Robert replied.

Peter turned to their guests, “While Lord Grantham is correct in saying that the danger to his family is great should you stay here, I think a solution can be found where aid can still be given. London is the area you know best, so you ought to return to it.”

“That’s true…” One of the prostitutes whispered to his fellowes.

“As it happens, I’m opening up an apartment studio there for my gallery,” Peter explained. “So why don’t we all go down to London together, and I’ll help you all get sorted. There’s other places, other bars, and the Cavour will re-open soon. You know that.”

“But… But what about Louise?” The tearful one asked.

“Well that’s not my place to say,” Peter said kindly. “That’s for the doctor, so we’d best wait for him.”

They didn’t have to wait long.

About half an hour past before Dr. Clarkson returned to the library. He looked haggard for the late hour, and rubbed at his sleepy eyes as he approached Robert.

“The patient is sedated,” Dr. Clarkson said. “He’s resting comfortably. May we speak privately?”

“Dr. Clarkson-” Thomas spoke out even as Robert and Clarkson made to leave the room. “These men are Louise’s friends, and so am I. Whatever you have to say, please say it to all of us. We’re the ones that love him best. He has no family besides us.”

Dr. Clarkson and Robert swapped a look, with Robert shrugging in a silent ‘If you must’.  
Nonplussed, Dr. Carkson returned to the center of the library to speak to all of them as a group.

“Well, I won’t pain this picture any prettier than it is,” Dr. Clarkson said. “Louise has tuberculosis.”

At once, the prostitute who’d wept before was back to weeping once again. He covered his eyes to hide his tears, leaning upon another who held him tightly about the neck. Worst of all was Jack, who was so horrified that he sank back into his chair. Though he was a black man, Jack’s skin looked almost ashen at that point, bloodless with the prospect of the losing the one he loved so dear.

It was Jack who adored Louise. Jack who had risked so much to get him away from the Cavour. Jack who would miss him the most, should he die.

“They tell me he’s soft on everyone, but it’s different with me,” Jack had once said. “I can tell. I can feel it. I suppose if I were a different man, I might say I love him.”

“I’m afraid his condition is very frail,” Dr. Clarkson said. “He could be taken from us very easily unless we work hard to save him.”

“Is he contagious?” Robert asked. “There are children in the house-”

“I’m afraid so, but given medication he will become non-contagious,” Dr. Clarkson said.

“Right, then he must leave at once,” Robert looked to Thomas with an iron stare. “I will not allow my grandchildren to-”

“We’ll take the children to Brancaster,” Peter cut across. “Louise must stay here.”

“Lord Grantham, if he were to be moved, he would die,” Dr. Clarkson warned. Robert shifted uncomfortably before taking a seat opposite of Jack.

“Fine” Robert muttered, bitterly. “But the children must go at once. And Cora. And Mary and Edith. And Tiaa.”

“The dog can’t catch it,” Peter grumbled. Robert didn’t seem to hear him.

“What can we do?” Thomas asked Dr. Clarkson.

“There is a vaccine,” Dr. Clarkson said. “I’ve read of it in French medical journals. It’s rather new. It’s called the Bacille Calmette-Guerin… or the BCG rather. I can give it to him, and it may perhaps save him. But it will be expensive.”

“I’ll pay it,” Thomas said at once. “Whatever it takes, I’ll pay it.”

“How long do you think he has?” Robert wondered. “Truly?”

“If his care is good, he could live,” Dr. Clarkson said. “If he continues to receive no care… days.”  
Near the fireplace, the crying man whimpered pitifully behind his hands.

“Right,” Thomas looked out into the darkened grounds, noting that it was still pouring down rain. “Given the weather, you’ll stay here tonight, and then tomorrow you can go with Peter to London and try to get started reclaiming your-”

“No,” Robert snapped, rising up out of his chair. “They leave tonight. End of story.”

“Dad, it’s raining,” Thomas begged, gesturing to the windows. “Let them at least sleep in the barn if nothing else.”

Robert gave a haggard sigh, his patient clearly spent on the subject.

“Please,” Thomas prostrated himself before his father, so that Dr. Clarkson raised en eyebrow in surprise. “They’re sick. They’re tired. They haven’t eaten in days probably. Isn’t it… Christian and charitable to help them? Isn’t this what we’re supposed to do? Isn’t this what is right?”

For a moment, Robert said nothing. He stroked his chin in thought, before finally coming to a conclusion and nodding.

“A night, in the barn,” Robert finally agreed. “Then they go. If they’re in the barn, it’ll be easier for them to run should the police come calling.”

“... Thank you,” Thomas said. He turned to the men waiting by the fire; they seemed touched that he had stuck his neck out so far for them.

“We’ll sleep out in the barn together,” Thomas decided. “My horse, Arion, he’ll protect us. We’ll be warm and dry-”

“Let me go,” Peter cut across, “I know how to rough it in the woods, and Louise needs your care. You stay by his side. Tomorrow, I’ll start the treck down to London. I had to make it when I came up the last time, so I know the way. There are little grottos… hidden places that’ll make the journey easier. I’ll ring when it’s safe.”

Thomas reached out, and though it was improper and obscene to do so he clasped Peter’s hand publicly in his own.

There was so much he longed to say. So much that he simply couldn’t.  
“... Peter…” Thomas whispered the name like a reverent prayer. “Thank you.”

“We’ll get through this kettle,” Peter said with a smile. “That’s a pot’s promise.”


	13. Two Types of Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louise's critical condition brings to light certain truths that had remained in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer chapter than normal to make up for the wait. Check for the triggers at the bottom, because a few are spoilers.

A soft, silken mist had settled upon the hills of Yorkshire in the early morning. There was an echoing emptiness across Downton’s grand and serene green lawn. There was no trace of fifteen prostitutes sneaking through the grass, and yet they had been there only hours ago. They, along with Peter, had vanished into the windy moors of England’s majestic countryside. Though they couldn’t be more than a couple of miles away, it was like they had been swallowed up by some ominous cloud of gloom. Thomas felt like he could cup his hands to his mouth and call out at the top of his voice over the dins and valleys, only to receive nothing in reply. Peter was far from his embrace, and in his wake he’d left a panging hollow feeling that made Thomas weak at the knees.

Now, Thomas was before the only member left of their midnight party. Jack had remained at Louise’s side until Robert had finally put his foot down and bade the man adieu around midnight. Jack had slept in the barn with the rest of the prostitutes, but when Peter had snuck them out of the grounds around four in the morning, Jack had remained behind. Now, with the hour of five slowly encroaching, Jack and Thomas stood before one another upon Downton’s ancient stone front steps. Thomas wore his nightclothes, around which he’d thrown a heavy woolen shawl better suited for winter. There was an ugly chill about his bones which had nothing to do with the mists.

“So what will you do?” Thomas asked. Funny that they should whisper to one another, when they were only a foot or so apart and no one else was around. But the moment felt fragile, as if Thomas could shatter it by squeezing his toes too tightly in his house slippers.

“Peter gave me some supplies,” Jack gestured to a rucksack canvas upon his back. “But I know my way around a wood or two. I’ve spent my life bowing to the whims of white men. I’m not going to take it any longer.”

While Thomas would not deny that the concept of freedom was a foreign one to an African American, it still did not answer the question of what Jack intended to do about Louise. That was the most pressing matter.

“Louise,” Thomas merely said the name; it was more than enough to incite conversation.

“I will not leave the one I love,” Jack swore. “My mother bore me into a world of pain and cruelty. His father did the same for him. We’re made for one another. He will not die, so long as I live. I know this implicitly.”

But it wasn’t that simple.

Louise was in wretched shape, one breath away from death, and no matter how much Jack might love him it did not change the fact that Louise had tuberculosis. The only thing that could save him now was medicine, and even then the outcome was uncertain. But Thomas didn’t feel like he could say these things to Jack. He didn’t suspect Jack of being a fragile sort of man, but it took an ungodly level of callousness to tell someone to their face that the love of their life was dying.

“I’ll do what I can,” Thomas said, and he meant it.

“He’ll live,” Jack seemed to speak more to himself than Thomas, looking up and out across the lawn towards where the morning sun was barely beginning to rise. “I know he’ll live. I’ll stay close. And when he’s well, I’ll return to take him home. Until then, look for me in the wood.”

Without another word, Jack left Thomas upon the stoop, taking his rucksack with him until he too had been swallowed up by the forest. In his wake, Thomas only felt more fragile and cold, like he were standing alone upon a great barren rock in the middle of a raging sea. He did not know what he could do to save Louise… but by God, he was going to try.

 

~*~

 

Dr. Clarkson came that very next morning, and brought with him an entire case of rattling vials. At first, Thomas had been utterly confused, until Dr. Clarkson had declared it was a vaccine to prevent the spreading of tuberculosis. Everyone in the family had to be innoculated, starting the children. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant affair, holding down George and Sybbie, but in the end they got there and the pair of them were sent to nap with plasters on their upper arms. George looked utterly betrayed, tears running down his plump little cheeks as he whimpered into his nanny’s arms.

He certainly got his revenge though, with everyone else having to get a vaccine too. Mary winced, Robert pinched his eyes, Cora let out a little gasp of pain, and Thomas swore like a sailor.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to dig for gold?” He whined as Dr. Clarkson jabbed him.

“Trust me, this feels better than tuberculosis,” Dr. Clarkson replied. Frankly, he had a bit of a point there.

Only when everyone else had been inoculated did Dr. Clarkson look in on Louise. That, in truth, was how Thomas knew that the situation was absolutely dire. If Dr. Clarkson had immediately gone to Louise and given him medicine, it would have been because he knew there was a chance and that time was of the essence. But to Dr. Clarkson it didn’t seem to matter whether he saw Louise now, or two hours later… he was still dying, and nothing would change that.

Louise lay, listless and exhausted, hiding in the red room where so many prominent guests had stayed before. Thomas kept the windows open, trying to tempt in some fresh air, and spent every minute of the day by Louise’s side trying to get him to eat. He was too weak, too ill to want to swallow large bites. Instead, Thomas bade Mrs. Patmore to make a broth out of cow bones, and helped Louise to swallow it one spoonful at a time. The bell rope, which so normally hung unobtrusively by the side of the bed, was lengthened with a long segment of twine that Mrs. Patmore normally used to tie up racks of lamb or pork. This way, Louise could pull of the rope without having to roll over in bed or reach up. It was looped around the headboard, its frayed and feathered end tied to Louise’s left wrist so that he might be able to ring whenever he needed aid. So weak was he that he could not even manage to use the restroom on his own. Thomas had to help him, which brought Louise horrible shame. To his credit, Thomas did not care. It felt like he was tending to a family member more than a stranger.

“Another bite,” Thomas whispered, offering Louise a small spoonful of beef broth. He’d managed about four bites so far.

“Christ,” Louise moaned, head splayed upon several stacked pillows so that he could sit up in bed. “You’re gonna kill me before the tuberculosis does.”

“Oh hush,” Thomas muttered, tipping the spoon back so that Louise could suck it down.

“No more,” Louise croaked, a tiny dribble of beef broth falling down his pointed chin. Thomas chased it up with a napkin, and set his bowl of half finished broth aside.

“No more,” He agreed. He set about to plumping Louise’s pillows, and even fetched a cool rag from the bathroom to lay over his forehead. Louise smiled at the sensation.

“You’re a proper little nurse, y’know?” Louise said.

“Well, you’re a proper little patient,” Thomas whispered. He continued to dab lovingly at Louise’s sweating face, even using the rag to wipe at Louise’s exposed breast bone and neck. His skin was waxen and pallid, as if all the blood had fled from his body.

A gentle came at the door, surprising them both. It opened to reveal Carson, who was stiff and wary at the sight of Louise. Thomas’ jaw clenched on instinct. In these past few days, he had truly started to hate Carson for how he’d treated Louise.

“A visitor has come to see you, Lord Downton,” Carson said. “Mr. Alec Young Junior.”

So it seemed the fabled trainer was back, which was rather surprising since Thomas hadn’t reached out to him after he’d left and frankly the fifteen prostitutes had left a bad impression.

Louise seemed to sense that Thomas was wary.

“Go,” He croaked, squeezing at Thomas’ arms with the tips of his shaking fingers. “I’m fine here.”

“I’ll be back,” Thomas swore, laying the rag back upon Louise’ forehead and plumping his pillows. “You need anything, you pull on your rope. Okay?”

“Got it,” Louise already had his eyes closed.

Thomas rose up from bed, rolled his shirtsleeves back down to button them at his wrists, and left Carson in the doorway of Louise’s room to head downstairs. There was a palpable tension between the two of them. Thomas could feel it everytime he passed by… but he refused to speak to Carson now. It had become a matter of principle. Carson had been content for Louise to die on the carpet like some sort of insect. That was unforgivable.

Down in the entrance hall, Thomas found Junior examining a painting of a woman holding a bird. He was rather entranced, and gave a start when he noticed Thomas walking up. He was wearing a tweed suit, and was twirling his hat in his hands. This was rather odd, because Andy ought to have taken it from him and hung it up in the coat room. Clearly Junior wasn’t planning on staying long.

“Mr. Junior,” Thomas greeted him.

“Mr. Crawley,” Junior offered his hand, but Thomas shook his head.

“Forgive me, I don’t think it wise for us to touch,” Thomas said. “We have illness in the house.”

“I see,” Junior dropped his hand, even going so far as to take a step back from Thomas. “That’s actually why I’ve come back. I was wondering about the man who came here the other night.”

“He’s upstairs,” Thomas said.

“How is he?”

“Poor. It’s tuberculosis.”

“That’s catching,” Junior’s eyes flashed with danger.

“We’re aware, the entire family has been inoculated. I can assure you it wasn’t a pleasant affair,” Thomas said. Junior winced in sympathy.

“Rather sad though,” Junior said. “He’ll die from it, that’s for certain. Honestly I’m amazed he hasn’t died already-”

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Thomas cut across. “Only, I’ve been tending to him day and night, and I’d rather not leave his side for longer than necessary.”

“Look at you, a right chum you are,” Junior praised. He gestured to the door. “Come on, let's take a walk. I want to speak to you in private.”

This was, once again, odd. They were alone in the entrance hall. Still, Thomas went with the man. The pair of them began their stroll across the grounds, making their way towards the stables where Arion was snorting and stamping a path around the corral.

“I wanted to talk to you about the other night,” Junior said. “I like you, Thomas. I do. You’re a bit fat but you’re a good jockey and I see promise in your horse. I want to invest in your future if I can. But the men that came here the other night… well… if you can call them men-”

“Well they weren’t women,” Thomas snapped. He stopped, so that Junior had to stop too. Now the pair of them were standing in the middle of the grass, looking slightly out of place.

“They were dressed up like women,” Junior countered.

“I could dress you up as a turkey. It wouldn’t make you one,” Thomas said. Junior tilted his head, considering this.

“Touche,” He muttered, before continuing on. “Why did they seek you out.”

“Please,” Thomas sneered the word. “Let’s not pretend. It doesn’t suit either of us. If you’re interested in investing in me, then you’ve probably been asking around about my name. I’m sure the phrase “Dark Horse” has popped up once or twice.”

“Unfortunately,” Junior said.

“The men sought me out because I’m like them,” Thomas said. Junior simply listened, his facial expression blank but his eyes alert. “Because they were in need of dire help, and knew I would provide it. That’s why Louise stays here. He’s the man with tuberculosis. He’s inverted, and so am I… and he knows I won’t let harm befall him.”

Junior nodded, and bowed his head to stroke his bushy beard in thought. When he finally did speak, it was in a calm voice, one that did not betray disgust or horror.

“A lot of people think the same of me,” Junior explained. “I’m a confirmed old bachelor. They always assume I bat for the same team, but they’re wrong. I’m meant for horses, not marriage.”

“Live your truth,” Thomas said.

“I shall,” Junior paused. “But you are telling me you’re a lavender, yes?”

There was no point in denying it. “... Aye, I am.”

“I see.” Junior looked out across the grounds. He seemed to be internally weighing something, but was having trouble gathering the odds.

“Are you thinking of telling the police?” Thomas asked.

“No,” He answered quickly, almost scowling as if offended. “I’ve got a reputation for being a dick, but I’m not that kind of dick.”

“How good to know,” Thomas drawled.

“Look,” Junior turned back, speaking in a plaintive voice, “Cards on the table. What you don’t know is that I’ve got several jockeys I train… and you’ve slept with one of them.”

“What?” Thomas gawked. Where on earth had that come from? Who- but he hadn’t--

“There must be some mistake,” Thomas said. “I’ve never taken up with a jockey-”

“Well if you’d let me finish, you’d understand,” Junior snapped. Thomas fell silent at once.

“You were coked out of your mind, from he what he says,” Junior paused. “I was mentioning your name in some inner circles, and he warned me not to take you on. Said you were a drug addict. I don’t do drug addicts; they’re sloppy and they get poor numbers. So what I want to know is, honestly, are you still doing cocaine?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I went to rehab and I’ve been clean for almost a year now.”

“Good,” Junior was quite content with this, some of the warmth returning to his voice. “Well then, I want to know if you’re willing to join my team. Either I get a jockey to ride Arion, and I pay you for him, or I want to train you as a jockey and we earn money together. If it’s you, I want to take you and Arion to America to put you through your paces.”

“America?” That had come out of left field. “Why?”

“England’s too touchy,” Junior said. “You need somewhere easier to train. Somewhere where you’re not well known. American’s have lower standards and a much larger terrain to pull from.”

But something about this just didn’t seem to ring true. Why was Junior so invested in him? Did he really see that much potential in Arion?

“Why are you so interested in me and Arion?” Thomas asked.

Junior smiled, there was a wistfulness to his gaze.

“Kyroma,” He said. Thomas blanched. Where had he heard that name before?

Oh-! Arion’s grandfather.

“What about him?” Thomas asked.

“I owned Kyroma after he was put out to stud,” Junior explained. “He was one of the finest horses the word has ever seen… he killed his yokemate. His offspring killed his yokemate too… Arion is the third generation of a horse line built for war. I saw Arion being born. I sold him for a good penny too; I never realized I’d one day see him again. Maybe in a way, I’m doing this for Kyroma. For the horse that wooed me.”

Well that was stunning. And to think, Thomas had been under the impression that Henri Jelliss had been the reason Junior had come his way. What if Junior had already been searching for him, and they’d met in the middle by coincidence?

“Look, I can’t leave for America until Louise is better,” Thomas said. “He’s too ill, I-- I can’t abandon him. There are people in that house who would let him die.”

“I see,” Junior nodded. “Well, in that case I’ll be in touch. When he dies, we’ll go to America.”

Thomas bristled at the implication. It seemed that no one would give Louise the chance to live.

“He could live,” Thomas warned, but Junior just shook his head.

“No,” Junior wouldn’t indulge in a fairytale. “And you know he won’t.”

 

~*~

 

A week and a half passed, and Thomas began to delude himself into thinking that Louise might yet live. Dr. Clarkson had been by twice to check up on his progress, but had not offered more medicine or any positive outlook. Instead, he’d merely pursed his lips, written something down in a notebook, and then checked Thomas (as always) for tuberculosis. Ten days after vanishing from the grounds of Downton Abbey, Peter called from London to say that he’d made it safely and had dispersed the members of the Cavour to old friends. Where they went now was up to them, but at least they were back in familiar hunting grounds. He was apparently in desperate need of a bath and a shave, but was in good health and sleeping in a bed again.

Thomas took that to heart, tending to Louise as carefully as a mother might to her babe.

It was a dull sort of dusky afternoon, with a heavy red light holding up the sky even as the moon pushed forward. Soon it would be night, and there would be calls for dinner and a change of dress. Until then, Thomas sat perched on the edge of Louise’s borrowed bed, watching him sleep. There were small hiccups in his breath, hinting at the deep rattling in his chest. Either his condition was unchanged, or Thomas was too ignorant to know if Louise was getting better or worse.

When the door opened, Thomas expected it to be one of the maids, or perhaps even Mrs. Hughes bringing new linens. Instead, he was utterly relieved to see Peter upon the doorstep, freshly shaven and wearing a tiny smile.

“Oh Peter-” Thomas stood up and embraced the man at once. He smelt of spiced aftershave and hair gel, a telling sign that he had bathed recently. They drew back, with Thomas clasping Peter’s arms as if to test his solidity.

Yes, he was here. Yes, he was back.

“Just got back?” Thomas asked.

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, “Out like a light?” he glanced at Louise.

“He’s been asleep for a while now,” Thomas said. “I was about to wake him for dinner.”

“Ah, let him sleep,” Peter opened the door, ushering Thomas by the small of the back till they were both in the hallway. With the door closed, the pair of them were able to speak more freely without fear of waking their guest.

They walked side by side, taking their time as they ambled up the gallery corridor. High domed windows let in streaming slides of crimson light from outside. As Thomas walked through them, his skin flashed from creamy white to hottest pink.

“That pony boy came back,” Thomas said.

Peter chuckled, deeply amused. “Alec Junior?”

“That’s the one.”

“What did he want?” The pair of them paused, elbows touching as they relaxed upon the hand carved guard rail of the overhang. Below them, the entrance hall sat dark and empty.

“He wants me to go to America and train,” Thomas said.

“America…” Peter’s nose scrunched up in thought; it was rather charming. “Why?”

“Says it’s easier.”

Peter scoffed, rolling his eyes, “That’s bullshit. The Kentucky Derby is in America. I think he’s spreading his assets.”

“How do you mean?” Thomas asked.

“Well, he’s got that little waif of a thing running his races here,” Peter said. “He doesn’t want two students competing against one another.”

Now that Thomas thought about, Peter had a very valid point. There was no way that Thomas could win against Book Law, or Henry Jelliss. But America was an open slate as far as Alec Junior was concerned. Maybe that was the real reason he wanted to go.

“You know, I think you’ve got a point.” Thomas paused, a seductive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know, I think you might be mildly intelligent.”

“Well,” Peter scoffed, cocking his head, “I think you might be mildly right.”

They were such children. Honestly, when had Thomas been reduced to giggling like a maid? He tried to re-compose himself, even as Peter continued to snigger.

“Pony Boy,” He muttered. “Where’s Jack?” He asked, changing the pace and tone of conversation.

Well that was the sixty thousand pound question, wasn’t it? “He Just…” Thomas cast a hand out into the air. “Walked into the forest. I haven’t seen him since. He said you gave him supplies?”

“Just some camping things,” Peter said. When Thomas grimaced, Peter nudged him gently with his elbow. “Ey’. Jack’ll be alright. He’s as strong as they come.”

Would he? At least it wasn’t winter… But there was so much up in the air, so much so that Thomas could not change. Even if Jack survived in the woods, that wasn’t a promise that Louise would survive in the abbey.

He bowed his head, momentarily overwhelmed by all he fear within him. Peter caught him by the arm, pulling him close so that Thomas was forced to look up into the man’s face.

“Hey. Hey-” Peter touched Thomas’ chin. Thomas had to look away, tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

“I’m doing everything I can, but-” Thomas couldn’t finish his sentence.

“I know,” Peter was both assuring and understanding, his voice soft and melodious.

“I don’t think it’s gonna be enough.” Thomas covered his mouth, pulling back a bit if only to get some breathing room. He didn’t want Peter to see him cry, to see him so helpless. He wanted to be strong, to endure through the storm. He wanted Louise to survive. To pull through.

But implicitly, he knew it was a fool’s dream.

“Maybe not,” Peter murmured in his ear, a gentle hand rubbing methodical circles upon Thomas’ back. “But you’re the best hope that he’s got.”

“... That’s what I’m afraid of,” Thomas choked out. Peter clasped him from behind, wrapping an arm tightly about Thomas’ breast bone so that his chin could rest upon Thomas’ shoulder.

There was no true consolation he could give besides his presence… but it was more than enough.

Down the hall, bathed in shadow, Mr. Carson stood paused at the baize door. He’d been intent on ringing the gong, but had become sidetracked by his errand by the conversation he’d overheard between Thomas and Peter.

Nagging concern worried his brow, causing deep lines to appear between his heavy set brows. Something had to be done.

 

~*~

 

Charles Carson had had just about enough, and frankly he’d been more than patient on the subject with all parties involved.

Louise _had_ to go.

At first, it had been upsetting to have a whore in the house, particularly a molly from the streets of London. Charles could handle upset. Charles could navigate upset. Upset was a normal thing for a butler to be. But Louise had tuberculosis, consumption rather, and that was a disease which had killed Charles’ grandmother. He’d watched it from afar, shielded by his mother, but it had still been terrifying to witness. He could remember being young, perhaps no older than five or six, hiding beneath the dining room table with his cousin Albert. They could hear their grandmother hacking up a lung, howling in pain right up to her dying breath. She’d drowned in her own fluids, her lungs filling up like swollen sacks.

Tuberculosis was catching, even if the family had been inoculated. Tuberculosis could spread like wildfire; half the house had come down with Spanish Flu in one night. What was to stop them from coming down with tuberculosis next? Yes, the children were out of the house… but Thomas was strapped to Louise’s side like a tick, refusing to budge.

Charles could easily see Thomas getting tuberculosis, and after weakening his health with drugs, Charles didn’t know if Thomas would be able to survive.

Something had to be done.

Heading to the library, Charles found his lord and master reclining in his favorite leather armchair with Tiaa at his feet. He was reading the evening paper, waiting for the gong to be rung. The gong, however, would have to wait until Charles had spoken his mind. At Robert’s side was Cora, working on a cross stitch in the dying light. She was yet to turn on the lamp sitting next to her, much too intent on finishing her beautiful work.

“Carson,” Robert set aside his paper with a pleasant smile, “How are things?”

“That is why I need to talk to you, M’lord,” Charles gently shut the library door to give them some form of privacy. “I’m deeply concerned with Lord Downton.”

At once, Cora looked up from her cross stitch in dismay. “Why?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Don’t say you’ve caught him doing something,” Robert suddenly looked ten years older with stress.

“No, M’lord, I’ve not caught him doing anything,” Charles said. Immediately, Cora let out a breath and resumed her cross stitch, content to know her only son was safe.

“It’s just that I’m terribly uncomfortable with this business of a male whore being in the house,” Charles said with dismay. “Particularly one with a dangerous and deadly disease. I feel that it would be much more beneficial for all if he were to be put in a modern hospital with access to the best in care. Right now, Lord Downton tends to him day and night. What’s to stop him from getting tuberculosis as well?”

Cora looked to Robert, a slightly sad smile upon her beautiful face as if she had been expecting such a conversation. Robert considered the options, tilting his head from side to side.

“Dr. Clarkson seems to believe that Louise will die if he is put in the care of a hospital. I fear I am prone to believe him, given Louise’s…. Profession.”

“And now that he’s been given the vaccine, Lord Downton should be safe from the spread of tuberculosis,” Cora added.

“If Louise dies, that is not our affair, M’lord.” Charles could not waver with his line in the sand. Louise would not be the first to die of tuberculosis, god help him he certainly wouldn’t be the last. But Charles would be damned before he willingly saw a member of the Crawley family be stricken by such a foul and loathsome disease. A disease that sucked life way like a rubber plug being pulled from a laden sink.

“No,” Robert agreed, “But it is apparently Thomas’. If he can be persuaded, I’ll say no more of it. But I doubt you’ll get his support on this issue. He seems determined that Louise should live.”

“His determination is what worries me, M’lord,” Charles replied. “I fear he will grow remiss in his own health.”

Cora paused in her stitch work once again. Charles could see her growing worried, internally.

“Very well, M’lord,” He knew it was fruitless, but he would try. “If you insist.”

“I do, Carson,” Robert’s tone boded close to warning, as if Charles had in some way displeased him by mentioning such an idea. “I truly do.”

Without another word, Charles went to ring the gong.  
He would speak to Thomas after dinner, when hopefully he would be in a receptive mood.

 

~*~

 

  
Dinner that night was a slightly more upbeat affair with Peter back home. He was able to carry the weight of conversation with Cora and Tom, where before there had only been silence in lieu of Mary’s absence. Mary, George, and Sybbie were all long gone, having jumped ship to find safe haven in London until the threat of tuberculosis had passed. Frankly, it made the jabs seem to be all for nothing in Thomas’ eyes, but Mary would not be swayed. George was the most precious asset that the family possessed, as the sole heir to the Crawley line.

Despite the fact that he was tired, Thomas returned to Louise’ room after dinner to resume caring for him. Louise was fitful, unable to truly awaken, and as a result he’d accidentally urinated upon himself. With the help of two maids, Thomas carefully stripped Louise’ bed and put him in fresh pants. His fever was running fresh; perhaps that was why he hadn’t realized he needed to urinate.

“...J..” Louise could not form the full word, but Thomas knew that he was calling out for Jack.

“Shh,” Thomas rubbed Louise’s brow with the pad of his thumb. He felt the sting of a cold sweat beneath his touch.

A soft knock upon the door broke Thomas’ concentration. He looked up, but instead of finding Peter coming to say goodnight, or the maids coming to bring him new linens, he found Carson of all people. The man seemed possessed by a mission, his brow knitted and his gaze intense.

“... What is it?” Thomas asked. He did not feel comfortable with Carson so close to Louise.

“If you have a moment, Lord Downton, I wish to speak with you outside.” Carson said.

In a way, Thomas almost knew what was coming. He’d sensed it from the time when Carson had refused to telephone the doctor while Louise lay vomiting upon the rug. Louise was fragile, with each breath seemingly his last. He needed, more than ever, a staunch ally who would not forsake him.

Thomas carefully laid the bell rope in Louise’s limp hand, then rose from the bed to exit the room. Carson shut the door after him so that they were sequestered in the hall.

For one queer moment, it was almost as if Thomas were a footman again, being chastised for lollygagging when he ought to be polishing the silver. But Thomas was no longer a member of staff, and Carson had very little authority over him. What remained of their relationship was all the fear that Carson had placed within him, and all the contempt that Thomas had grown to bear for the man.

Carson put on his most stern face; given his temper, it was rather dominating.

“I understand that you are intimately attached to this Louise character, but I cannot allow him to stay in this abbey any longer. For all that he is, he is a diseased whore, and one that got you addicted to drugs. I feel that it would be for the best if he were to be put into the care of a professional institution. Perhaps even Rustington.”

Typical. Thomas exhaled, his jaw beginning to clench involuntarily from sheer irritation. Just a single snap of the fingers was it? I don’t want him here, so he goes away?

“Have you spoken to his Lordship?” Thomas asked.

“I have,” Carson clearly took a great amount of pride in doing so. “And he has told me that he’s not comfortable with Louise leaving unless you agree. So here I am.”

“So here you are,” Thomas repeated. There was no pride in his own voice. Carson’s expression faltered, even if only a little.

“I understand you are greatly concerned for him, but are not a nurse-” Carson began.  
Thomas cut him off.

“No I’m not,” Thomas agreed. “I’m his friend. A very close friend. And he’s incredibly ill, practically dying. So I don’t really care what you think, in this instance, though I’m sure that shocks you.”

“Not particularly,” Carson sneered. “When you have never cared before, nor probably ever will.”

“Well then,” Thomas folded his arms over his chest. “I suggest you take heart in the fact that Louise might soon suffer a vile death, choking on his own vomit. That should cheer you up greatly.”

“Believe it or not, I-”

“ I don’t believe it,” Thomas said. Carson stopped, rather ashen by Thomas’ aggressive tone. “I don’t believe you have honest intentions in wanting Louise to leave. I believe you’re glad he’s dying, because that’s the consequence of his sins. I believe if you could, you would be judge, jury, and executioner.”

Carson was speechless, or at least he was dismayed into silence. He let out an exhausted sigh, as if Thomas had somehow terribly disappointed him in this encounter.

“... Stay away from Louise,” Thomas said. “I don’t trust you not to smother him with a pillow.”  
He turned, leaving Carson spluttering in the hallway.

“How dare you-” Carson began. He was cut off by Thomas closing Louise’s bedroom door on him; just for good measure he locked it from the inside.

In the dark, Thomas looked to Louise, only to find the man awake. He was watching Thomas patiently, a hand open atop the covers as if wanting Thomas to take it.

Thomas sat down upon Louise’ bedside, and did so. With as much strength as he could muster (hardly a gratifying amount), Louise squeezed his hand.

Outside the door, the shadows of Carson’s large feet vanished. He’d walked away.

 

~*~

 

 

_“Stay away from Louise. I don’t trust you not to smother him with a pillow.”_

At first, Charles had been outraged. The absolute nerve, to insist that he would dare to commit such a vile sin as murder…! But the more that Charles had stood alone in the hallway, the more sick he’d felt to his stomach so that he’d slowly had to make a retreat back to his office where he spent the rest of his evening decanting wine just to calm his shaken nerves.

  
A day had passed, and then another, and through it all Thomas refused to remove himself from Louise’s side. The boy coughed up blood, ruining several handkerchiefs, and yet Thomas would not budge. The weaker Louise got, the more resolved Thomas seemed to become.

 _“I believe you’re glad he’s dying,”_ Thomas had said. It had been easy, initially, to deny it. But now that Charles had a moment to think on his own, was he?

Was he truly glad?

I mean… it had all seemed so cut and dry to him. So very black and white. Louise, somewhere along the line, had made the decision to become a whore. Something so vile and despicable it made his skin crawl to think about. Louise had made that choice, knowing it cast him outside of society’s safety net. Why he’d done so were his own concerns, but in Charles’ eyes it had been an effective banishment from all that was good. Now, Louise was dying because on of his …. Clients… had given him tuberculosis. Was that some kind of sadistic karma?

Perhaps, perhaps not. Charles was a butler, not a priest or a philosopher. Elsie might like to joke that he was poetic, but Charles felt he would never fully understand the true measure of life and justice.

But Thomas’ anger in his voice had been tantamount, and frankly unnerving to Charles. When he’d resided over Thomas as butler, he’d felt secure. Now that Thomas was beyond him, Charles felt like he was rather facing a wild stallion. Any moment now, he was certain Thomas was going to turn around and kick him in the teeth for daring to go near Louise’s bedroom.

But Peter Hexam went by often, flitting in and out like a dove through an open morning window. Charles had watched the pair of them flirting for nearly a year now, and frankly it was about to drive him mad… but he had to admit that Peter had a way with Thomas. He seemed to understand him more intimately than anyone in the house.

Perhaps, then, Peter was the one he ought to be talking to.

Determined to make some headway with Thomas, no matter what road it might lead him on, Charles decided to pay Peter a visit on the gallery floor. Peter had commandeered an old sitting room that had once belonged to the prior Lord Grantham as a private office. Now, heavy canvas tarps had been laid over the floor, with unused furniture and the odd marble bust drug in so that Peter could have something to paint.

Charles knocked and entered into Peter’s lair, immediately taken aback by simply how bohemiam the entire layout was.

Glass jars covered every sitting surface, along with ashtrays, empty bottles of paints, the occasional soda bottle, a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, and for whatever reason a butterfly trapped within a small cage. The windows had all been flung open, letting in plenty of air and light upon the scene of Peter painting the fine curves of a red velvet love seat. He was entranced with his work, seemingly unable to pull away.

For whatever reason, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Charles flustered, unused to the sight of a man half dressed for no reason. Peter’s suspenders were banging about his knees, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and a loaded paintbrush full of crimson paint in one hand.

“Eh-?” Peter did not even deign to look up till he’d finished tracing the fine outer curve of the love seat’s headrest. When he finally did so, he pulled back and wiped his hands upon a stained rag to look over his bare shoulder.

He raised an eyebrow at the site of Charles.

“Mr. Carson,” Peter greeted him.

“Lord Hexam,” Charles said.

“Please, call me Mr. Pelham,” Peter said. “Lord Hexam is my cousin, we must remember.”

“I shall settle for Sir Pelham, and nothing less,” Charles said. While it was incredibly charitable of the man to allow Bertie his title so that he and Edith might have a better life, he was still the true Marquess in Charles’ eyes.

Peter just grinned, pausing to sip on a bottle of soda. Charles wondered if Peter had gotten it from the village on one of his daily walks.

“My butler was similar to you, you know?” Peter mused, before taking another sip. “I think butlers often share similar traits… call it a type if you wish.” Peter set down his soda before re-striking his cigarette and returning to his canvas. He reloaded his brush with paint, mixing the colors to get the exact shade of burnt red that he so desired. “Anything I can help you with.”

“... Lord Downton,” Charles admitted.

“Thomas.” Peter allowed the ‘s’ to trail through his teeth, not even looking up as he continued to mix his paints. Perhaps it required a delicate eye to keep the colors balanced.

“I was wondering if I could have you speak to him in my favor.”

Peter paused, pursing his lips. He exhaled a large plume of smoke before stubbing out his half-finished cigarette and setting his paint tray aside.

“No,” Peter said. “I don’t think I can do that, you two need to speak. It’s not my place to interfere.”

“He won’t speak to me, M’lord,” Charles urged. “You’re the only one that can reach him on the level that I need.”

“No, he won’t speak to you, will he?” Peter mused. He paused, casting yet another glance over his shoulder. “Right now isn’t the time anyways. Louise needs him.”

“That’s why I need to speak to him!” Charles pressed. He watched Peter fish through an opened box of disused and motheaten scarves, before pulling out one a shade of marine blue. It had once been used by the Dowager back when she’d been a new mother.

“Sir Pelham, I beg you to listen to me,” Charles said. To Peter’s credit, he stopped fumbling with scarves and looked him in the eye with full attention.

“Louise must leave this house,” Charles was emboldened, sensing this was his one and only chance to get his point across. “He’s violently ill, dying, and Thomas is much too close to him. He could easily contract tuberculosis.”

“Is that really it?” Peter asked. He sat upon the very love seat that he was painting, relaxing against the spine to judge Charles with an intensive gaze. “That Louise is sick?”

“Yes!” Charles was almost furious, “Why does no one believe me?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Carson,” Peter replied. “Why does nobody believe you? Why would that be? Have you perhaps ever made comments regarding inverted men that might make people question whether you were prejudiced against them?”

“I-” Charles scoffed, flushing at the notion. “I am not prejudiced!”

Peter just stared, with a dull lifeless gaze that made Charles’ blood boil. Clearly the man didn’t believe him.

“It doesn’t matter if Louise is inverted or not,” Charles said hotly. “He is a whore! A diseased whore, and he should not be here sullying our house!”

“That-” Peter pointed at him, as if wanting to reach out and touch the word in mid-air. “That right there.”

Peter let his hand drop upon his lap, still as calm as could be. “Why is he sullying the house?”

“As I said, he is a whore!” Charles said.

“So?” Peter shrugged. “Worse men have sat at the dining table downstairs.”

“If we allow standards to slip, where will we fall?” Charles demanded. “First we let in a whore, then we let in a blasphemer? What next? Should we allow Judas into our embrace?”

Peter just stared. Charles slowly began to calm, noting that Peter was practically icy where Charles was in flames. My god, they were different men.

“... Do you want to know why Thomas won’t talk to you, Mr. Carson?” Peter asked. Carson blinked, taken aback.

“It’s not because he’s terrified of you, though he is,” Peter added with a pause. “It’s because he already knows what you’re going to say on the subject of Louise. He knew you wanted Louise to leave from the time that you didn’t ring for the doctor. You’re not telling him anything knew. He already knew what his response was going to be. All of it was so… scripted.” Peter sounded oddly disappointed. “You know what I am. What Thomas is. We’re the same as Louise.”

“Neither of you are like that man,” Charles shuddered at the thought.

“If you mean that neither of us sell ourselves for sex, that is only because we have been fortunate enough to still have a place in the world. And I’ll remind you, Mr. Carson, I lost mine. I was starving in the woods when Thomas found me. And Thomas was in Rustington because his lover committed suicide.” Peter sighed, as if taken up by some old memory. “If you truly want to converse with Thomas, truly, then you will be open to what he has to say. Stop relying on the age old lines to get you through. Be aware that there are things which exist beyond your realm. Thomas and I live in a completely different world than you. Either allow yourself passage into it, or stop trying to break down the door.”

Peter rose up from the loveseat, and picked up his pallet again to continue dexterously mixing paints. “Now, I’d like to have my solitude so that I might paint, please.”

Frankly, Charles did not want to stay any longer. Where Thomas had made him angry, Peter just made him feel… well…

Slightly self-disgusted.

“... Sir Pelham,” Charles closed the door after him when he went.

 

~*~

 

 

Another week passed, and Louise’s condition inevitably began to worsen. Where before he had been able to take small walks about the house and even bathe on his own, now Louise could barely move from bed. There was an awful humid air about him, and a telling rattling in his breath that spoke to his flooded lungs. The family did not speak about it, but Thomas was beginning to buckle under the resolve of keeping Louise alive. In the beginning it had all seem so straightforward: get the injection, take the supplements, and let him rest.

Now... ? Thomas wasn’t so sure anymore. Could it be that nothing was effective? That the disease was simply too strong for Louise’s fragile body?

Unsure of what else to do, Thomas called for Dr. Clarkson to come take a look, and currently stood at Louise’s bedside watching the man check Louise’s lungs with a stethoscope. He was not alone; Peter was with him, equally as concerned for Louise to feel better. Thomas did not know how to convey in words what Peter’s presence meant to him. He’d grown to be the greatest friend that Thomas had ever had, but there was more to their relationship than a kinship of minds.

Peter had reminded Thomas he had a heart. Now, Peter was beginning to watch it break.

Dr. Clarkson had finished his exam, and wore a grim face as he turned to gesture silently for Thomas and Peter. Louise was asleep, his chest rattling with each breath he took. They exited the room, with Dr. Clarkson closing the door carefully so that Louise would remain untroubled.

“Well?” Peter whispered, clearly not wanting to speak too loud lest Louise wake up and overhear.

Dr. Clarkson sighed, and took his stethoscope off his neck to dither with it nervously in his hands. “It’s as I feared,” Dr. Clarkson said. “He’s not going to make it.”

The damning blow was an awful, vile thing, squeezing at Thomas’ chest like a murderous python.

“How long?” Thomas asked, and damn him if his voice didn’t warble with emotion.

“I cannot say,” It was odd that Dr. Clarkson had such kindness in his tone. Perhaps he was moved by Thomas’ determination. “He’s done well under your care. You’ve given him more time than he could have ever managed on his own. But tuberculosis is a vicious disease and he was never innoculated before infection. What is more, given the details that I’ve gathered regarding his past, he was never in good health to begin with. His lungs were weak from opium. He never stood a chance once the infection began.”

So it seemed that Louise’s bad habits had come to get him. Thomas bowed his head, suddenly tired and hopeless in the face of an evil he could not beat.

“So…” He glanced back up, “So there’s nothing I can do?”

“Nothing,” Dr. Clarkson confirmed.

Thomas drug a hand over his face, pausing to pinch at the tip of his nose. He looked away down the gallery hall, which was vacant save for a maid changing the bed sheets out of Mary’s room. He suddenly wanted to be on his own. To try and come to terms with the finality of Louise’s life in private.

“Excuse me.” He left, but not before allowing Peter to squeeze him comfortingly. Their hands interlocked, if only for the briefest of seconds, with fingers ghosting over one another as Peter silently imparted his understanding.

As Thomas walked down the hall, he could still hear Peter and Dr. Clarkson talking.

“Will you tell Louise?” Peter asked.

“No. Sometimes the knowledge that death is coming just speeds it along. Let him live his remaining hours in peace and quiet. After the life he’s lead, it’s only fair.”

 

~*~

 

Dr. Clarkson’s words hung like an ominous stench in the room, despite no one telling Louise. Most of the time, Louise was asleep. When he was awake, he had a sluggish quality to his speech and often talked of nonsense. He’d call for people no one could see. He’d ask for things that made utterly no sense. All Thomas knew to do was to kindly assure him all would be well and allow him to fall back to sleep.

A week after Dr. Clarkson’s visit, Louise looked well and truly dead. For some reason, he had not been able to sleep that day, and instead and had sat up in bed staring whistfully off into space. Once, Thomas had caught him talking to someone who wasn’t even there. It was just past lunch, and Louise had refused to eat. He didn’t seem hungry, instead merely staring out the window onto the great expanse of lawn that ended in woods.

“Jack…” Louise croaked the name. “Where’s Jack? Is he here?”

“Not yet,” Thomas said. Across the room, Peter was relaxing in an armchair, having previously been reading a book of poetry to Louise.

Louise hadn’t been paying attention.

“I need him,” Louise croaked.

“He’s coming,” Thomas said. This of course, was a bare faced lie. He didn’t know where Jack was, never the less when he would be arriving back at Downton.

Louise coughed, a wet groggy thing, and then said, “Will you tell Nanny I want Winky?”

Thomas flashed a look at Peter, who raised an eyebrow. Who in the hell was Winky?

“Of course,” Peter said. Once again, they were lying.

But then, something strange happened. Instead of blathering on to no one, Louise coughed, rubbed his eyes, then spoke lucidly for the first time in days. “What am I saying? That cat’s long dead.” Louise looked to Peter with sorrowful eyes. “I wish I was better.”

“I wish you were too,” Peter said. It was a statement which Thomas heartily seconded.

“I wish I could have sex,” Louise said. Thomas spluttered.

“What are you saying?” Thomas wondered. “Honestly, Louise.”

“Sex always made me feel good,” Louise admitted. “Remember when you fucked me, Peter?”

Thomas was taken aback. Peter and Louise had been intimate?  
Honestly, it wasn’t that much of a shock, given that Louise seemed willing to fuck anyone and everyone (provided they were male). Still, it made Thomas feel an odd fluttering sensation in his chest. The idea of Peter having sex with anyone was… well..

It made him feel things. Odd things. Things he didn’t rightly want to name.

He wasn’t the only one to be shocked. Peter went bright red, putting down his poetry book and standing up.

“Louise,” Peter grumbled. “Stop thinking about sex and try to get some sleep, for god’s sake. This isn’t the time to be thinking about things like that….”

Peter looked down, as if damning himself for being sharp with a dying man.

“I’m going for a walk,” Peter left the room without another word, leaving Thomas and Louise alone. So distant was Louise that he didn’t seem to realize Peter had left the room. At least, that was what Thomas thought until he spoke.

“... He loves you.”

At first, thomas didn’t understand what Louise had said. He stared, then suddenly the gravity of Louise’s words hit him.

“No,” Thomas shook his head.

“He is,” Louise replied. “I can see it in his face.”

“Mhmm?” Thomas refused to listen. He rose up, checked Louise’s forehead, and found him oddly cold. “I think you’re tired.”

“Jack loves me,” Now Louise was musing to himself. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up rambling again. “But it won’t be enough.”

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“He won’t make it,” Louise said. “In time, I mean-” He paused, taking a moment to look out the window.

For a moment, there was silence between. Could this be Louise reckoning with his fate? Despite Dr. Clarkson not allowing Louise to know he was dying, perhaps Louise had managed to figure it out.

Maybe it was intuition, like the touch of death soon to come had enlightened the man.

“Thomas,” Louise seemed to sober up, staring at him intently with a dire need that Thomas could not deny. “There’s something I want you to do for me. Something I need you to do for me. Because I think I’m going to die very soon.”

There were two ways Thomas could proceed. He could deny it, shush Louise up, and tell him to go to be. Or he could be honest, and allow Louise his final wish.

“... Anything you want,” Thomas agreed.

“I want to dine with the family tonight,” Louise said. “In a full tux. I want to have a night like my youth. Can you do that for me?”

This was a little shady, but doable if Thomas thought about it. Louise was very ill, but everyone was innoculated. There was a lift and a wheelchair in the house. They could technically dress Louise and take him downstairs to dine in his wheelchair. Cora and Robert might be upset by it, but this wasn’t about them.

This was about Louise, and his final request.

“Of course,” Thomas said. “I’ll inform the family. Dinner will be at seven tonight.” He paused to check his pocket watch. “It’s 2:22 right now. Try to nap until around five. I’ll have Bates help you wash and dress.”

“Whose Bates?” Louise asked.

“He’s my father’s valet, as well as mine ,” Thomas explained.

“Good…” Louise closed his eyes, resting back against the pillows. “Good that will help. Wake me when the gong is rung.”

Slightly nonplussed, Thomas left Louise to his slumber, deciding the first thing to do would be to tell his mother and Mrs. Patmore (who would now have to cook a second serving). Then, he would go find Peter outside and see what he thought of this odd request.

Yet even as Thomas descended the gallery stairs, something rather strange hit him.  
Louise had mentioned to wake him when the gong was rung… but how had he known about that ritual? Was it so common knowledge that even a London whore might know of it?

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure.

 

~*~

 

_“Remember when you fucked me, Peter?”_

Oh, but Peter could remember, and easily. He’d been hiding from the woes of his family, keeping to himself in the back alleys of London. Louise had been so young and whole then, supple and sweet. He’d tempted Peter with a flick on the tongue, taking him into the back room and dropping his kimono to pronounce that he was ‘chilly’. Peter, as a gentlemen, had warmed him up.

He’d laid Louise upon his bed, and painted symbols into his skin from a cup of red wine. He’d licked the symbols clean, kissing the inside of Louise’s thighs until he’d reached that sacred place only certain men got to know.

Louise had been his muse for the night… and frankly, for many more nights after that. There were sketchbooks from two years previous filled with images of Louise in every pose imaginable. He’d felt so alive then, so goddamn unstoppable. It had all been like a game, deflecting his mother’s cruel jabs and ignoring his aunt’s biblical tirades. They’d sworn him a sinner, but Louise had declared him a saint when they’d made love.

 _“Fuck me Peter, fuck me Peter, fuck me-- oh!”_ Louise had screamed with his head thrown back. _“God fuck me!”_

“Peter?”

He jumped, heart stuttering as he whipped around to find Thomas watching him.  
Sweet, beautiful Thomas.

If Peter were honest with himself, there was more to his embarrassment than Louise just being lewd. So far, he’d managed to avoid any type of conversation that drifted around the topic of sex when it came to Thomas. He’d done this deliberately, because he hadn’t wanted to think about sex when looking at the man he so desired.

For months, Peter had beaten down the feelings that were beginning to curdle up inside him. Now? He could no longer avoid the fact that he adored Thomas. That when he looked into Thomas’ eyes, the painter in him saw a swirling sea fog. That his hair was like midnight. That his skin was clotted cream upon a warm sweet scone.

He wanted to kiss Thomas’ lips, every hour of the day. To suck at them like honey from the comb till the taste of it lingered in the back of his throat.

He’d been so enraptured, he hadn’t heard Thomas sneaking up on him. Now they were only feet away, and it petrified Peter.

He took several steps back.

“Did you not hear me calling you?” Thomas asked.

“I was a little…” Peter swallowed, his tongue rather thick in his throat. “Preoccupied. What were you saying?”

“Louise has made a final request,” Thomas said.  
Well, that was enough to get rid of his raging erection any day.

“Ah,” was all Peter could think to say.

“He wants to have dinner with the family tonight,” Thomas said. “And he wants to wear a tux too. Something about reliving his youth? I couldn’t quite understand it. But I’ve informed my mother and Mrs. Patmore. No one’s happy but they’re doing it.”

“Well that’s good of them,” Peter pursed his lips, silently trying to adjust himself in his pants without Thomas noticing.

A soft wind blew between them, just beginning to tinge with the oncoming cold of a far off winter. Thomas seemed as uncomfortable as Peter.

“... So you’ve slept with Louise,” Thomas said.

“He’s something isn’t he-” To avoid answering, Peter stared over Thomas’ shoulder. “Three sheets to death’s embrace and he’s still thinking about sex.”

He hoped that Thomas might find the humor in the situation, and maybe change the subject. But when he did, it only made Peter panic more.

“He thinks you’re in love with me,” Thomas said.

Peter bristled, his cheeks flushed bright red. For a man dying of tuberculosis, Louise sure was chatty!

“Are you?” Thomas asked. Why did it sound like there was hope in his voice? Hope, of all things…

Peter’s face suddenly felt terribly itchy. He scratched at his neck and chin, his skin hot with embarrassment.

“I…” Peter tried to deny it as best he could, to change the subject even, but both came to a fault. Thomas was staring at him with such need, such longing, that it rendered Peter mute.

“I… sometimes I look at you-” Peter was blathering now. He couldn’t even tell what he was saying anymore. “And I cannot speak or breath-” and yet somehow he was still speaking. “Sometimes I…. “

 _You’re being an idiot,_ a voice whispered in his head. _Walk away now before you embarrass yourself further._

He turned away, intent on walking until he could clear his head. But before he could even take two steps, he felt a tight grip upon his wrist-- Thomas had grabbed him!

“Sometimes you-?” Thomas repeated his words, clearly desperate to know the rest of his sentence.

“For god’s sake,” Peter begged the man. “Don’t make me say anymore.”

“Please, I need to hear it.” The pair of them were close to arguing, and the stakes could not be higher. Peter didn’t know why he couldn’t just come out and say it directly but… but it felt like there was a rock in his throat, closing off his voice.

It was fear. He knew the emotion well. He was in love, but terrified of, Thomas Crawley.

“I don’t know how to put it into words,” Peter said. “I’m not a writer, I’m a painter-”

“Is that all you can think to say?” Thomas was almost angry now, dropping his hold on Peter’s wrist. There was hidden fury in his voice, so much so that Peter was ashamed to turn around and face the man head on.

“Yes- I mean- I’m not good with words!” Peter tried to reiterate, his cheeks and neck bright pink.

“Well I need you to be-!” Thomas jerked on Peter again, forcing him to turn around. Now face to face, Peter could see that Thomas was close to tears, desperate for some type of affection.

“I need to hear you say something that will make this okay, Peter,” Thomas begged.

But Peter was not a miracle worker; he was an artist. He could not give Thomas everything he desired right when he desired it, and it was ridiculous to even insist otherwise.

“I can’t give it to you,” Peter said. Thomas was crestfallen, but still he continued on. “Even if I was good with words, Louise is dying, and neither of us can change it. I hate, it makes my blood go cold… but… it’s the way things are. We have to face that.”

Thomas let go of Peter’s arm, suddenly sagging in his shoes as if pressed down upon by some unseen weight.

But it was awful, to have Thomas so depressed when before he’d been so desperate to hear Peter’s words of love. “If I was good with words, there is so much I’d say,” Peter promised him. “But I don’t know how, and I’m scared to say something that might drive you away.”

“... Drive me away?” Thomas wondered. “Why do you think you’d drive me away?”

“I don’t know-” Peter rubbed an aggressive hand over his face. He was getting flustered and it was beginning to show. “I just- I- nevermind!” Peter pulled his hand away from Thomas’ own. He needed to cool down, to have a moment to think. “I’ve got to cool down on my own. I don’t feel myself. Don’t follow me. I need some alone time-”

Without another word, Peter took off jogging across the grounds, desperate to put as much distance between himself and Thomas as was humanly possible.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Thomas returned to the house feeling both gobsmacked and thoroughly annoyed with Peter Pelham. The good news was that he had a few hours until the gong was rung to consider all that Peter had said. Fuming in his room, Thomas had laid on his bed and stared at the cieling wondering what on earth was wrong with that man to behave in such a way.

Peter’s excuse was that he was a painter and not a writer, but Thomas wasn’t looking for Shakespeare to woo him. He just needed a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer to his question; was that so hard to ask? But then, Peter had turned everything on its head by insisting that even if he could speak like a normal human being (which he could) that still wouldn’t make Louise better.

And of course it wouldn’t, and of course Thomas hadn’t been asking for Peter to make Louise better. He’d been asking for Peter to make him better, to say ‘yes, I love you’, and let them begin a new chapter in their lives.

But clearly, Peter wasn’t ready for that. Thomas had to wonder why.

Was it because of him? Had he done something to secretly offend the man? Peter was sensitive and Thomas was decidedly not. There were times when Thomas could be brash and in effect trample on everyone else’s feelings. He’d made peace with this only recently, and still had trouble with it from time to time. Maybe, Thomas had offended Peter but Peter was too nice to bring it up?

Oh-- sod it all. He didn’t have the mental energy to endure these kinds of questions.

Unsure of what else to do, Thomas took a fitful nap until the gong was rung, which woke him up like someone had instead struck him in the head. He’d sat up in a shock, only to realize he’d sweated through his day suit, and immediately made to take a quick bath and change. He would need Bates’ help tonight to get Louise ready for dinner. His own clothes would have to come second.

Washed and dressed, Thomas took one of his many dinner suits and brought it to Louise’s room. Louise was up, but still looking terribly thin and pale. Bates handled Louise with gloves, of all things, and seemed very nervous to touch him. Slightly offended, Thomas took over Louise’s bath while Bates prepared his suit. Thomas had, of course, seen Louise naked many times before, but Louise’s body had deteriorated rapidly with the disease. He was now so thin that Thomas could see the vertebra in his back, along with the outline of his pelvis. His breast bone and collar bone were as clear as day; all of it painted a terribly gloomy picture. Unable to stand the rapid temperature change of an actual bath, Louise sat on a low stool and allowed Thomas to wipe him down with a warm damp cloth. Thomas cradled Louise in his arms like a child, washing his hair and combing it into a side part. Louise’s hair was much too long to be proper for a gentleman. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas tied it back in a low hanging ponytail that looked rather romantic and fashionable. Clean at last, Thomas carried Louise back to the bedroom and watched as Bates put him to rights in a suit.

Through it all, Louise was silent. He was complacent with orders, lifting a hand or a leg when necessary, but never said a word and never met Bates’ eyes. Thomas’ suit dwarfed Louise, so that he looked like a skeleton wrapped in fine cloth. Louise could not walk, but Thomas still put shoes on his feet while Bates fashioned his cufflinks. He would use an old wheelchair that had once belonged to Sybil in the late stages of her difficult pregnancy. Bates even went so far as to take a pillow from Louise’s bed and put it upon the seat so that he had more cushioning. Inspired, Thomas took a throw blanket from the cupboard and laid it over Louise’s lap. He looked every bit a gentleman, and every bit a corpse in the same breath.

Content, Thomas took over the steering of Louise’s wheelchair, and drove him through the gallery floor to the far corner where a lift hatch was often used to take valises up and down the stairs. Bates operated the lift for them, and helped to open and shut the gates as necessary. In the entrance hall, Louise silently motioned for Thomas to pause wheeling him as he instead stared up and around at all the finery of Downton Abbey.

He wasn’t entranced. Instead he looked oddly sad, maybe even lost in a memory.

“Have you changed your mind?” Thomas asked. He certainly could understand if Louise had.

“No,” Louise said. “Just remembering. Let’s carry on.”

Now came the real test of courage. Taking a steadying breath, Thomas pushed Louise forward to the door of the pink parlor. He opened it, and found himself face to face with Carson who had tried to open the door at the same time. The two men stared at one another, with Louise caught in the middle like some unfortunate fly.

Beyond Carson, sat a parlor full of family. Cora and Robert were there, along with Tom and Peter. Mary had returned home, and was keeping the Dowager company in the far corner of the room. Upon Thomas’ entrance, all eyes turned and locked upon Louise. There was equal parts fear and wariness in each of their eyes (save for Peter). None wanted to draw too close. They could smell the death upon him, even though Bates had put cologne on Louise’s collar.

“... This was his request,” Thomas told the silent room. “So please respect it.”

Louise, in an odd motion of formality, tipped his head to the women in the room. Thomas wheeled him next to the sofa, where Cora and Robert were watching tentatively. Parking him in a convenient spot, Thomas then locked the wheels and adjusted Louise’s blanket upon his lap. Up close, Louise’s fingers looked like that of a skeleton spread out over the warm flannel.

“Christ-” Tom could not help himself, he was so taken aback by Louise. “You’re a skeleton.”

“Rather fitting given my state,” Louise muttered. There was dry derision in his voice, rather like when Robert got cross. Thomas glared at Tom over Louise’s shoulder; to his credit the man seemed slightly ashamed.

Slightly.

“I hardly recognize you in a suit,” Robert spoke up. “You look completely different when you’re wearing men’s clothing.”

“Thomas was good enough-” Louise paused to cough, “Good enough to lend me one of his dinner jackets.” He paused, glancing at the Dowager who was watching like a shriveled bird from atop her thorny nest. She eyed him warily, puffy lids narrowed at the sight of Louise’s state.

“Forgive me, My lady but I have not had the pleasure of acquaintance yet,” Louise addressed her. “Perhaps we should remedy that situation.”

“I am the Dowager Countess of Grantham,” the Dowager replied. “And who are you? Another distant cousin washed up from the shores?” She tittered at her own joke.

“I am Louis,” Louise said. Thomas was surprised to hear Louise use the masculine version of his name. Why had he done that? “I’m afraid my first name is all I can claim now, but I am grateful for your charity in enduring my person.”

Thomas had never heard Louise talk like this before. It was so stiff so… formal.  
So rehearsed.

He glanced over his shoulder at Peter, who was leaning back against the far bar where martini’s were being served by Andy. Peter looked just as mystified as Thomas felt.

“And tell me, Louis, why do you look like you’re my age,” The Dowager asked, “When you are clearly a young man. Are you ill?”

“I am dying of tuberculosis, madam,” Louise explained. Thomas expected his grandmother to balk and be taken aback. Instead, she took it in her stride, cocking her head to the side inquisitively.

“Then oughten you to be in bed?” She asked.

“This is my request, Lady Grantham,” Louise explained. “My last request.”

“How terribly morose,” The Dowager mused. “You’re rather cast a pall over the evening, haven’t you?”

“On the contrary, Lady Grantham, I feel that this is a beautiful reminder of what could have been,” Louise explained.

The Dowager was growing more and more curious with every word that Louise spoke. Behind their backs, Thomas heard Tom whisper to Peter: “He shouldn’t be down here for God’s sake, he’s dying.”

“This is his wish,” Peter whispered back.

“Yeah but it can’t be good for him, can it?”

“Who are you, really?” The Dowager asked. “How do you know my family?”

“Allow me to explain,” Louise said. “I am a whore from London who was rescued by these fine two men-” He gestured with a skeletal hand from Thomas to Peter. “I am dying as I’ve said, and have very little time left. So I have decided I wanted to live what remained of my life, surrounded by the things that once comforted me. Which is why I am here tonight.”

“I see,” The Dowager straightened up a bit in her chair, fine gray eyebrows arching ever higher. “And so you say you were a …?”

“A whore,” Louise would make no apologies. “A male prostitute to other men. A molly, if you will.”

“But I’ve never heard a molly speak so eloquently,” If she was going for a complement, Thomas’ grandmother was close to failing. “So surely you can’t have always been as you are now.”

Louise drew silent for a moment, only to cough and shake his head.  
“No madam, I have not.”

It was at this moment that Carson interjected himself into the conversation. He stooped over to speak directly to Cora: “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Determined to get this damnable dinner over with, Thomas unlocked Louise’s breaks and began to push him from the room. Louise stopped him with a hand.

“The lady of highest rank enters first, Thomas,” Louise murmured. Thomas was taken aback; he knew this, of course, but he’d forgotten under stress. How had Louise known to remind him?

When the Dowager had gone first, followed up by his mother and his sister, Thomas filed into the dinging hall to note that one of the chairs had been drawn back from the table. This was clearly meant to be Louise’s spot. Thomas pushed up to the edge, and locked the wheels again before seating himself next to Louise. Once again, Louise stopped him.

“You do not sit until your mother sits,” Louise said. Hesitantly, Thomas rose back up again.  
How on earth did Louise know these things? How many dukes and marqueses had he fucked to learn so much about their eating habits and rituals?

“I say,” Mary mused even as Cora made to sit. The rest of them followed suite. “You’re quite familiar with our ways. It’s like you’re one of us. How on earth did you achieve that?”

Carson began to make his rounds with the wine, starting them all off with a salmon stew that was savory to smell.

“Because I am one of you,” Louise said.

Thomas did a double take, shocked to hear as much. Could it be-?

“What?” Across the table, even Robert had forgotten his manors in his shock.

Louise gave a tiny smile, as if recalling a distant but fond memory. He picked up his wine glass with a trembling hand, only to set it down again. He then traced the patterns of the crystal; it was clear he did not have the strength to hold the cup on his own.

“I’m the son of a marquess,” Louise finally declared.  
Peter sucked in a breath, horrified.

“Oh my god,” The words fell out of Thomas’ mouth without him being able to stop them. “Are you serious-?”

“I don’t believe it,” Robert cut Thomas off, cold in his gaze. But Thomas believed it implicitly, understanding that Louise would not lie about such things.

Louise just continued to smile. Robert’s chilly condition did not seem to rattle him. After a lifetime of misery, it seemed that Louise knew how to combat a foul attitude towards his person.

“Charles Gordon,” was Louise’s reply. Robert blinked, struck by the name. “My father’s name is Charles Gordon. My name is Louise Charles Linsey Gordon.”

Cora stopped eating. She looked up, agog, and quickly stared at her husband for confirmation. Mary had stopped eating as well, her brow furrowed with thought. It seemed the Gordon name was not lost on them.

“... Louis died in-” Cora began, but Louise cut her off.

“The battle of Flanders. Yes, I know,” Louise paused, trying to pick up his wine again. He managed a tiny sip but had to use both hands. “That’s what he tells everyone. Blown apart by a landmine, which was much easier to explain that the truth for my disappearance.”

“I don’t believe you,” Robert said again in a rush. “I cannot believe you.”  
There was desperation in his voice, but why?

Louise held his spoon with a shaky grip, trying to eat what bits of salmon would stay on his spoon.

“My mother’s name was Amy Brooks,” Louise said. He began to rattle off his entire family, throwing such light onto his person that Thomas felt as if someone had smacked him with a genealogy book. “She was the daughter of Sir William Cunliffe Brooks, the first Baronet. She died in 1920. My grandfather was Charles Gordon as well, and my grandmother was Maria Antionette, daughter of Reverend Louis William Pegus. It’s him I’m named after. My father is a member of the Privy Council. He’s been referred to both as Lord Strathavon and Earl of Aboyne. He’s a Scotish Liberal Politician, and serves under William Gladstone as Captain of the Honorable Corps of Gentlemen-at-Arms.”

At this, Louise stopped, glancing up at Robert who was staring with his mouth open. Cora had turned white, horrified by Louise’s admission.

“Shall I go on?” Louise asked.

“...Oh my god,” Robert looked ready to be sick. He touched his mouth to hide the fact that it was open. Cora’s eyes were wide and glistening. Why was she ready to cry.

“Louis,” She said. “We were at your christening.”

“How convenient,” Was Louise’s steady reply. “You will also be at my funeral.” He tried to take another bite of soup, only to begin coughing. Thomas quickly fetched his napkin, desperate to hide the splotches of blood from the others.

“This is outrageous,” the Dowager said from her own corner. “Our family knows your own very well. We must call them tonight, this very instant-”

“This is insanity!” Mary proclaimed. “I can remember playing with you when we were children.”

“I know, I know-” Louise waved them all off.

“I remember you as a baby,” Cora continued on. “I remember your mother rocking you.”

“You have to give more detail,” Mary demanded. “I refuse to believe this until you tell me something only the real Louis would know.”

Louise just gave her that same tiny smile.

“Whispy,” He said. Mary shuddered at the name, her lips twisting into a grimace of horror.

“My father always thought you were daft for adoring dogs,” Louise said, speaking straight to Robert. “We were a cat family. After all, the cat is our emblem. I got my first cat when I was very young, no more than five. Her name was Whispy,” Louise’s smile suddenly turned genuine at the memory. “She was white as a cloud. She slept with me in my bed despite my governess scolding me. I loved that cat.”

He returned to his soup, taking another sip. Cora looked to Mary for confirmation; she could only nod her head.

“Then that settles it,” The Dowager declared, “We must call Gordon tonight and confront him-”

“Please, Lady Grantham-” Louise waved a shaky hand to diffuse the notion. “Let’s not dish old dirt. The salmon soup is divine and your cook has even bathed it in a white wine sauce.” Louise paused to take another sip. “And she’s seasoned it with saffron too. A fine chef indeed.”

Louise looked over his shoulder at Carson, who’d gone green from the revealed truth of Louise’s genealogy.

“Carson, if you would please give the chef my regards,” Louise said. Carson did not know what to say, agape.

Louise just turned back to his soup.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Thomas begged. “Did you know the whole time-?”

“Who your family was? God yes,” Louise shrugged. “What did it matter to me? You were a client when you first walked in, and even if you’d known the truth it would have changed nothing. We both know this.”

“But-” Thomas felt oddly betrayed. “Is that why you’re called Louise? Because your old name is Louis?”

Louise nodded, pausing with his soup to cough again into his napkin. It was slowly beginning to turn pink.

“My father found out what I am when I came home from the war on leave,” Louise explained. “He discovered some letters in my luggage. He kicked me out. I had no money, no skills, no anything… eventually my line of work found me. Louis died that die, and Louise was born. Louis was a gentleman, raised to take on the title of his lineage, educated at Harrow and Oxford. Louise… was a whore.” Louise smiled. “So in a way, I let the past die behind me with my name. It was easier than dwelling on what once was. I heard my cousin Granville took the title, which is hysterical since he’s a bonafide idiot. Hope they enjoy the future heirs being cross eyed.”

Louise had to pause to continue coughing into his napkin. Thomas offered him his own water glass, but had to hold it for him as Louise drank. When he pulled away, the rim was tinged with blood.

Robert stood up. He did so with sudden ferocity, so that he almost knocked his chair backward.Everyone regarded him warily.

Robert was struggling internally with all the information; he could not seem to accept it without accepting his own failings in the matter.

“I am… deeply disturbed that this was done to you,” Robert said. His voice was hushed, almost to the point of a whisper. He certainly looked disturbed, that was for sure.

“Goodness, look at you, getting all hot and bothered,” Louise was as cool as a cucumber, resuming with his soup. “Sit down and relax. Have a dr--” Louise paused, noting that Robert did not have a wine glass with his meal. “That’s right, I think I overheard it mentioned you couldn’t enjoy the port. Well, that is a pity, but the soup is delicious. Do have some.”

“I am going to call him right now-” Robert even pulled away from the table, headed straight for the door. Though his family called out to him, it was Louise’s voice which made him stop.

“And say what?” Louise demanded in as loud a voice as he was able. Robert froze, his hand outstretched for the doorknob. “Oh, your son is here and he’s dying of tuberculosis after being a molly in London’s scum. He’s wearing my son’s clothes and he’s going by a girls name. You know as well as I do what would happen to your reputation. It’s why you didn’t want me in the house in the first place. Keep your position and family safe, sit down, and have some salmon.”

Ashen, Robert slowly backed away from the door. He had no choice in the matter, with hands well and truly tied.

He sat back down, but he did not make to eat.  
Indeed, everyone had been put off their appetite.

 

~*~

 

After dinner, the family returned to the pink parlor. Louise (or Louis, rather) seemed to have summed up all his strength in order to have one last evening like his youth. With the meal finished, it seemed Louise could no longer manage to hold his own. He lay slumped in his wheelchair, his breathes raspy and his face white. Though Thomas had parked him by the fire, it seemed that nothing could warm Louise. He was unnervingly cold to the touch.

“... One last… favor,” Louise’s voice was deadly quiet, yet all seemed to hear it. Mary and Cora paused in their card game. The Dowager looked up from her book. Robert and Tom, having been speaking privately in the corner, both stopped talking to listen in.

Peter watched from the couch, intense.

“Anything,” Thomas promised Louise. At this point, he’d happily give over a hundred ‘last favors’ if it gave Louise some peace of mind.

“Take me to the woods,” Louise tried to sit up better in his wheelchair, but could not summon the strength to do so. He remained slouched.

“What?” Thomas didn’t understand.

“Jack said he’d come back,” Louise said. “He vanished into the woods. Take me to the woods. Please. Let me see him again.”

“...Alright,” Thomas didn’t know what else to do. He unlocked the wheels of Louise’s armchair, making sure that the blanket covering him was tucked into his sides. Peter stood up, obviously intent on going with him.

“Are you sure about this?” The Dowager asked.

“It’s too cold for him to be outside,” Mary agreed. “He needs to be somewhere warm-”

“Please,” Louise’s haggard gasp cut them both off. “This… This can’t go on.”  
And it was the awful truth.

“I can’t die till I see him again,” Louise explained. “So let me do what I must.”

The ominous warning of Louise’s words was not lost upon the Crawley family. Robert addressed Carson, who had been silent in the corner until that moment.

“Carson, fetch the groundskeeper,” Robert said. “Have him bring a torch.”

“...M’lord,” Carson left without another word.

 

 

The groundskeeper, a Mr. Brooks, was summoned to meet them at the front door. Thomas was the one to push Louise like always, though Peter was happy to take up the torch that Mr. Brooks offered. The pair of them floated like a star through a sea of darkness, with Thomas often needing Mr. Brooks’ help to control the speed of Louise’s wheelchair as they went down several hills.

“Where did you last see him go in?” Mr. Brooks knew very little about their quest, save that they were looking for someone in the woods.

“Somewhere near the western front. The hedge divide,” Thomas pointed to the massive undergrowth. At night, it seemed like a swarming mass of black tentacles, like some monster from the deep was trying to drag the manicured lawn to its doom.

“Then let’s start there,” Mr. Brooks said.

“These woods are massive, trust me,” Peter said. “Jack could be anywhere, but I have a feeling he’s in a spot that I told him about. There’s a cave not too far from here-”

“Aye, I was thinking that too,” Mr. Brookes mused.

Yet as they reached the final edges of the grassy lawn, in the very same spot where Jack had vanished so many weeks ago, it seemed they were up against the impossible. There was no way that Louise’s wheelchair could navigate through the undergrowth. It was thicken and violent, with sharp twigs and devilish vines waiting to trip up whoever crossed by.

“Louise,” Thomas said, “It’s too difficult to push a wheelchair through this kind of growth. This is as far as we can go.”

But Louise was bound and determined. He clutched the arms of his wheelchair in a death grip, all the bones showing in his hands as he began to push himself up on weak arms.

“No,” he grunted, “It’s not.”

“Louise-” Thomas tried to hold him back, only to Louise wrench angrily at his fingers.

“I have lived all my life under everyone else's damnations,” Louise hissed. “If I must die, let me do it under my own. Let me decide one fucking thing in my life.”

Thomas dropped his hand at once, shamed.

Standing, but wobbly, Louise reached out with both hands, using the trees like guideposts as he stepped into the woods.

“I’m going to fetch a map,” Mr. Brookes said, “We can use it to find your friend easier.” He left on his own, allowing Peter to keep the torch. Peter shined it upon Louise, trying in vain to light his way forward.

Louise began to walk, though he more or less staggered like an infant. Thomas was entranced, as if hypnotized by the regression of a person from an adult to a child once again. He felt like he was bearing witness to something almost mystical, something a person wasn’t supposed to see until it was their time.

Louise faltered, collapsing into an old oak tree, righted himself, walked seven more paces, then buckled at the knees and fell to the ground face first. He did not move.

“Oh Jesus-” Thomas blurted out. He pelted forward, nearly falling over when his foot got caught in a low laying branch. Peter was right behind him, the pair of them reaching Louise at the same time. Thomas sank to the ground, carefully turning Louise over.

 

Blood was streaming from his mouth. His eyes were misty, but they still boded life. Louise looked from tree to tree, then to Thomas and Peter. It was obvious that he could not see them… not really.

“... Said… he’d… come,” Louise’s teeth clacked in his mouth as he shivered. With each word he spoke, more blood came out.

“Louise, he’s too far to hear you,” Thomas was reduced to begging. “We have to get you back inside-”

Peter stood up, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout at the top of his lungs: “JACK! JACK! ANSWER ME!”

But no answer came.

Peter sank back down on one knee, cradling the top of Louise’s head with a cupped head.

“Peter help me,” Thomas begged, trying to get Louise to sit up.

“No,” Louise croaked.

“Come on-”

“I said no,” Louise snarled. It was the strongest that he’d spoken in weeks, and it resulted in a haggard fit of coughing that stopped Thomas dead.

Louise had accepted what he could not.

Slowly, bitterly, Thomas laid Louise back down upon the earth. Peter was silent as the grave that Louise was surely about to feel, holding one of his hands between both of his own. Thomas did not know what to do- he’d never felt more helpless in his entire life. He wanted to run to Dr. Clarkson, to his father, even to Carson, but knew that it all would be in vain.

There was nothing that any of them could do for Louise anymore.

“... I choose this…” Louise croaked.  
He closed his eyes, his chest heaving raggedly. His teeth were still clacking.

Thomas was trembling, though he had not yet realized it. He looked to Peter, who was staring at him. The pair of them locked eyes and did not move, the three of them somehow now stuck in an enormous tug of war where Louise’s life was in the middle. They’d tried, as a pair, to save him. In doing so, they’d failed together.

This misery was theirs alone to endure.

Yet even as Thomas gave up hope, he heard the slow methodical crunch of someone walking through the underbrush. Like a mythical being from the mist, Jack suddenly emerged from the forests. He was bare chested, his muscles gleaming in the light from Peter’s torch. He stared down at Louise, still shivering upon the ground, and extended both hands like an angel might to lift up a broken soul.

At once, Thomas and Peter gave him room.

There, upon the ground, Jack carefully scooped Louise up in his arms so that he was cradled in a sitting position. The change of gravity caused blood to trickle down Louise’s chin like a weak waterfall. He sucked in a rattling breath, his eyes slowly opening to view Jack above him.

At last, he smiled.

“... Beloved,” Jack said. It was both Louise’s title and a promise.

“... Baa.” Louise croaked. “Sheep. Shepherd.”

It made no sense, and yet it also made all the sense in the world. It felt like a lifetime ago that Thomas had watched Louise high on opium giggling and baaing like a sheep from the steps of the Cavour. Jack had been a shepherd to him then, guiding him back to bed. Now, Jack was a shepherd once more, allowing Louise to rest in the safety that someone was finally watching over him.

That someone finally loved him.

“I knew…” Louise shuddered violently. “I knew… you’d come.” Louise rolled his head against Jack’s arm, till his cheek touched Jack’s pectorals. “Stay?”

“Until the end, my love.” Jack swore.

Louise smiled, his eyes falling closed once more.  
His breathing began to slow till he fell silent, his teeth no longer clacking in his mouth.

At first, Thomas thought that Louise had fallen asleep, and was about to ask Jack to take him back to the house, but then Louise’s head lolled like that of a limp doll.

He wasn’t asleep.

“....Louise?” Thomas reached out, praying that he would feel the tinge of a breath from Louise’s nostrils. Instead, he felt only an aching stillness that made him suddenly feel very cold.

Jack’s expression did not falter. After seeing so much misery in his own life, it seemed that the man was not rattled by death. Instead, he slowly stood and took Louise with him so that Louise’s arms and legs hung like the branches of a weeping willow.

Pressed tight to Jack’s chest, Louise was finally home.

Jack observed them both, the lone torch between them like a tiny fragile fire holding off the eternity of night.

“This is the way the world ends,” Jack declared, whispering it so that it might have been a breath from the forest instead of a human voice. “Not with a bang, but a whimper. D’you see?”

Neither Peter nor Thomas had an adequate answer. In a way, Louise’s broken body between them was answer enough.

Jack turned back, walking with a slow methodical pace through the growth. With each limb, each leaf, he was taken back by the forest till nothing remained of his presence.

The void had swallowed both Jack and Louise up, leaving only the warning of Jack’s final words. That the world did not end with a cataclysmic explosion of father and son, of inverted and normal… that it instead fell to pieces one stone at a time till nothing was left to stand on.

Thomas swayed, shuddered, and bowed his head.

“... You gave him all you had to give,” Peter whispered. Thomas did not have the strength to raise his head. “You gave him the ability to die the way he wanted to die.”

But it was more than that, wasn’t it?

Sure, Thomas had been able to give him the ability to die, but he hadn’t been able to give him the chance to live. Goddamnit, what was one without the other?

“He died but he never lived,” Thomas hissed in fury, slowly clenching a handfull of dirt till it stung against his fleshy palm. “What’s the good in that?”

“... There’s two types of courage,” Peter finally mused. “The courage to live and the courage to die. You have one or the other. Louise had the courage to live even though he was a whore in the dregs of London. You had the courage to die when you felt like wasn’t worth living. He was scared, tonight. He didn’t want to die. You showed him how to do that. Now let him show you how to live.”

And there was great wisdom in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trigger warnings include infectious diseases (tuberculosis), blood, period typical homophobia, and minor character death**


	14. A Stronger Personality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of Louise's unfortunate death, Thomas prepares to leave for America. But before he goes, there's something that Carson needs to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking too long. My mother had knee surgery last week, so I was home helping her recover. I hope that the contents of this chapter makes up for the absence. We're nearing the end of this fic! We have about maybe two or three chapters left now. I'm going to take a small break when I've finished and do a commission. After it's done, I've decided I'm going to write a Thomas/Bates omegaverse fic featuring prostitute!Thomas and murderous!Bates. It's gonna be wild. Let me know if that's something you'd be interested in.

They never saw Jack or Louise’s body again, but Robert had been told by Carson that Thomas’ suit had wound up on the doorstep of the downstairs entry. It had been neatly folded, left upon the servant’s area table, but was the final sign that Jack had been there. Robert had requested the suit be thrown out, fearing contamination from tuberculosis. Carson had been all too willing to assist, so now Thomas was one suit down with a trip to America looming over his head. Robert had tried to offer Thomas a trip to London, hoping to raise his spirits and perhaps take him to Smithby’s. Who knows, he might even run into that pretentious tailor Jack Whittaker; that ought to make him smile at the very least.

But Thomas was not interested in traveling, nor in shopping for suits. Most days, he sat in gloomy silence or milled about the lawn of Downton’s fine rolling green. More often than not, Robert caught his only son simply sitting with Arion at the stables.

Nothing seemed to bring Thomas joy anymore.

But Thomas’ lack of enthusiasm, for shopping or life in general, went wholly unnoticed by Alec Junior who was frankly starting to get on Robert’s nerves.

“We’ll leave in five days,” Junior spoke more to Robert than Thomas, who was currently slumped on the library sofa staring pensively into the fireplace. Cora was out at the hospital making her charity rounds, so Robert was filling in for her spot; she would be the one to go to America with Thomas where they would be staying with her mother.

Frankly, Robert was far from jealous.

“It’ll take us about a week to cross over, and we’ll land in New York City. From there we’ll travel to Mrs. Levinson’s summer estate and practice with Arion there. There are a few races we can compete in, but I mainly want to get you up to snuff.” Junior shuffled through a sea of personal paperwork, all of which had been completed by his own team on both Arion and Thomas’ personal health.

“Thomas?” Junior snapped.

“Yes, I’m listening,” Thomas grumbled, though by looking at him you couldn’t rightly tell.

“From here on out, your on a strict diet. You eat fruits, veg, and lean meats. That’s it. That’s all you get. No dairy, no sugar, and certainly no bread,” Junior waved a stern hand like he was Thomas’ governess. Robert felt mildly stung at this assault on his son. “I’m serious. Either you agree to allow someone else to jockey, perhaps Jellins, or you slim down. You’re a right porker. That has to change if you want to maximize Arion’s speed capacity.”

A right porker indeed, who on earth did Junior think he was talking to?

“I say,” Robert spoke up, “I would appreciate if you spoke about my son in a more favorable tone, he is hardly overweight.”

“Lord Grantham, I train horses and jockeys,” Junior replied, “That’s all I do. If I say he needs to lose weight to maximize Arion’s speed, then that’s what needs to happen. He doesn’t have to diet, he doesn’t have to do any of this, but if he wants to compete seriously, he’ll need to show his dedication. That’s just the rules of the game.”

But did Thomas want to compete seriously? In fact, Robert felt a thread a guilt when he truly examined the situation at hand; it had been him, after all, to beg Junior to dinner. It had been him that had wanted Thomas to compete professionally. Thomas had just wanted to have fun with Arion, and why not? He was a youthful and energetic young man, looking for an outlet. Did he really want to be a professional jockey, unable to enjoy things like sugar or bread?

“I say, are you listening?” Junior demanded. Thomas sucked in an irritated breath, sighing dramatically and rising up from the couch.

“Yes, I’m listening,” Thomas growled. “I’ve been listening the whole damn time. Do what you like, I’m going to nap. I’m tired.”

“Well get some sleep because from here on out, I’m riding you like you’re the racehorse,” Junior quipped. Thomas, in a lack of personality, did not respond.

 

For the rest of the day, Thomas spent his time outdoors and did not come back in; every so often, Robert would see him flitting past a window with Arion trotting behind. Junior tried to comment once or twice, but eventually was ruled out and forced to retire early. Despite being more than welcome to room at Downton Abbey, Junior had declined the offer and instead wanted to sup and sleep at the Grantham Arms. After watching Junior call Thomas a ‘right porker’, Robert was rather glad the man had left. Now, it was close to time for the gong to be rung, and Robert sat in the library enjoying some well deserved rest with his family. The day had been terribly tiring, having to listen to Junior drone on and on about horses and how Thomas was an enormous tub of lard. He was kept company by Cora, who was reading the newest edition of Edith’s magazine. Mary had lent it to her, and now sat on the opposite sofa staring wistfully out the window while Carson kept watch over an untouched pot of tea. Far in the distance, just as always, Thomas was out on the green with Arion by his side.

As if spurned onward by the awareness that Cora’s departure was imminent, Robert could not help but talk to her. He did not like for them to be parted, not even for a moment, so the idea of losing her to America and her mother for several weeks was enough to put him off his dinner.

But not his dessert. Mrs. Patmore was making lemon ice box pie.

“Carson’s booked passage on the Majestic, so I suppose that will be you gone for a few weeks,” Robert mused. Cora winked.

“Try not to miss me,” She teased.

“Impossible. I miss you even now.”

While Cora and Robert tittered at their little banter, Mary just continued to stare. Oh-! What Robert would give for happy children. Now, ironically, the only child happy was Edith.

“Oh Mary, do smile for me?” Robert begged her. “Let me have more than one child happy at a time. If it weren’t for Edith a pall would be cast over the family.”

Instead of answering him, Mary slowly got up from the sofa and made as if to pour her own cup of tea. Carson stopped her with a well timed hand, and poured it for her so that she might drink and stare out the window.

“Anna says that Thomas’ dinner suit was returned, but that you destroyed it?” Mary asked Carson.

“It was, M’lady. A little worse for wear, I fear,” Carson carefully sat the teapot aside. “His Lordship told me it would be best to get rid of it, given the fear of contamination.”

“Any sign of the other man?” Mary asked. “John…?”

“Jack, my lady,” Carson corrected her. “And no, I fear not.”

“Poor devil,” Robert mused from his corner. Cora patted his knee in tender agreement. Wherever Jack was now, Robert hoped that he was healthy and safe. God only knows had happened to Louis’ body.

“You’re the one that sent him out into the woods,” Mary muttered into her teacup. Robert rather resented that.

“I sent him away from the house, the woods were his own decision.” Robert reminded his eldest. Mary licked her ruby lips, tilting her head in thought so that a wave of deepest brown fell upon her shoulder.

“Do you know what I find peculiar, papa?” Mary asked.

“What, my dear?”

“It could have so easily been us.” Mary sat her teacup down and turned to look at her parents. “All it would have taken would have been some ignorance. Some apathy. Louis was cast out by his father, and look what happened to him. It could have so easily been Thomas.”

Robert scoffed; so easily indeed. As if he would ever do something as vile as cast out his son over his irregularities.

“Not so easily,” Robert warned. “I am not nearly as cruel as Lord Gordon.”

But Mary was not soothed. Indeed, she became grumpy at his answer. “But think about the Dark Horse and Rustington...and poor Peter living in the woods. It’s scary how easily a person can fall when they’re outside the safety nets of society.” Mary let out a little sigh, returning to her seat upon the couch. Her fears had exhausted her. If dinner were not so soon, she might have called for a nap. “I suppose you think it’s his own fault… that he asked for it.”

Robert tisked in annoyance. Why did his children think him so black hearted?  
“Hardly,” Robert said. “Thomas’ nature is not something which can be changed… Louis’ story is painful, but it serves as an important reminder of how precious life is. That’s why we must do everything we can to preserve it for as long as we can.”

“And Louis?” Mary mused. “Did we do everything we could for him?”

“My dear, the Titanic was doomed to sink when it was struck,” Robert advised. “There would have been very little sense in bailing out the water with a jug.”

 

 

~*~

 

That night, dinner was strange affair. Peter watched pensive as Thomas picked at a pitiful plate of vegetables. Dinner tonight was a delicious smattering of roasted pork loin with sauteed mushrooms and creamy mash. But because of that stupid Junior’s diet, Thomas had been reduced to nothing more than salad and water. He was already depressed enough with the of Louise. This was just uncalled for.

“You’ll have to ring and tell us all about New York. I haven’t been there since I was a little girl,” Lady Mary was saying. Lady Grantham was nodding, content and happy. Lord Grantham was eagerly eyeing the lemon icebox pie on the side table. Tom Branson was listening to Lady Mary, seemingly engrossed with every word that fell past her beautiful lips.

No one was watching Thomas; no one was seeing how dismal he was.

“Mr. Carson,” Peter spoke up.

“My lord,” Carson was quick to reply, and smooth in tone. To Carson, dinner was like a well oiled machine and he the conductor.

“Could you please give Thomas a serving of the pork and mash?” Peter asked.

Carson paused, reproachful in his answer. “ I’m afraid I cannot, sir. He is under strict orders-”

“Yeah, well I’m overriding those strict orders because they’re bullshit,” Peter snapped. Carson blinked, taken aback by his sharp language at the dinner table. It certainly shut Lady Mary up, who turned to stare at him agog. “Please serve him some actual food, he is not fat.”

“I quite agree,” Lord Grantham spoke up. Peter was glad for the support. “Honestly, I ought to have reprimanded the man myself, but he can be such a bully when it comes to jockeys.”

“Thomas is not a jockey,” Peter reminded the man. “And if I have to hear one more damn word about how he is fat, I’m going to give Junior a fat lip.”

“Peter,” Lord Grantham grumbled. “There are ladies at the table.”

“Well I mean it,” Peter said.

Carson was snapping his fingers, demanding that Andy the footman bring back around a plate of pork and mash. But instead of accepting the meal, Thomas waved Carson off and rose up from his seat as if to leave.

“I’m not hungry, I want to go to bed,” Thomas said.

“Thomas-!” Peter was exasperated. He rose up too, attempting to take the man by the hand to make him sit down. “Please, eat something! I’m begging you! Don’t let Junior run your damn life-”

“I’m not hungry, Peter,” Thomas squeezed his hand only to slip free. He left without another word, closing the door to the dining hall silently behind him. With pursed lips, Andy carefully picked up Thomas’ now abandoned plate. He’d hardly taken seven bites. Exasperated, Peter collapsed back into his seat. Now he was feeling off his food too.

He’d like to pretend that this was all to do with that wretched Junior and his stupid diet plans, but he knew better. This was about Louise, and the guilt that Thomas carried unnecessarily.

And that was not something that Peter knew how to help him with.  
It seemed that Lady Mary knew it too.

“He’s heart broken,” Lady Mary deduced.

“Something like that,” Peter lay his linen napkin over his plate. There was no point in pretending to be hungry now. “... I knew as soon as Dr. Clarkson said it… I knew what was going to happen.”

“Tuberculosis,” Mary mused.

“But Thomas just… didn’t want to give up,” Peter shrugged, helpless. “I don’t know why but he took it so personally. He was determined to save Louise. He told himself he could not fail. He didn’t prepare himself for the eventuality when he did fail.”

“Hope is a beautiful thing,” Lady Grantham said. “But it can lead to horrible disappointment when it falls through.”

“This transcends disappointment,” Lord Grantham disagreed. “Louis was born of our lot. He should have led a life of privilege. Instead he died a disease riddled whore in the middle of the woods. Thomas thought he could save him… but he was far past saving. He needs someone to tell him that. Someone he’ll listen to.”

“I’ve tried,” Peter said, for who would Thomas listen to if not him? “He won’t listen to me on this subject. It’s like… he’s shut off. He needs someone who has a stronger personality than me.”

Peter did not notice Carson behind him, eyes narrowing deep in thought.

 

~*~

 

 

Socks, undershirts, vests, ties-- Thomas counted them all to calm himself. There was a methodical cleansing to the sadness within him. So long as he packed, so long as he tidied his room, he did not have to think about the fact that Louise’s body was probably rotting in a shallow grave. Something was simmering deep within him, warning him that he would soon face the wrath of what felt like an entire hornets nest eating its way up through his soul. He wanted to rage. He wanted to split the skull of the first man that crossed him. He wanted to set Alec Junior on fire just for calling him fat. He had enormous amounts of emotion swirling just underneath his skin, a sort of poorly controlled hurricane that howled in warning every time someone asked too much or got too close.

Peter had tried to urge him not to let Junior run his life. But Junior didn’t run his life; Junior just shouted and pranced like a ringmaster on the edge of the circus, forswearing that all events seen were of his own design. The real carnival was inside Thomas’ mind, and Junior had no control over that.

So lost inside himself was he, that Thomas did not even register that there was someone standing in his doorway until a large shadow threw sudden gloom onto the contents of his second valise.

Thomas paused, looked up, and saw Carson standing in the doorway. He was watching Thomas with a tepid if wary glare, and seemed bound and determined not to move until he decided. There was always this aura of bullheadedness about Carson; in that moment, it seemed to manifest itself tenfold.

The hurricane beneath Thomas’ skin crackled in warning.

“Go away,” Thomas said, returning to his packing. He folded a collared shirt against his chest, using a method he’d learned as a valet to not make a noticable crease.

He glanced up, found Carson still staring at him, and stopped folding his shirt.  
“I said, go away,” Thomas repeated himself. This time, he spoke without courtesy (though he’d hardly shown it before).

Carson took a small breath through his wide nose, his expression one of forced calm: “You could not save him.”

Oh. So that’s how it was going to be?  
Thomas snorted at the audacity of it all, rolling his eyes and laying his shirt atop a row of neatly piled socks. The absolute idiocy of the man, to imagine that he of all people should dare have a say on how Thomas handled his grief over Louise.

“I am not talking about this,” Thomas declared, “Especially not with you.”

“Why?” Carson asked. Unlike so many times before, there was no heat in his voice. Instead, it was like Carson had decided he was speaking to a child. “Are you afraid to hear what I may say?”

But Thomas already knew what Carson would say. He’d spout some age old bullshit line that he’d learned in 1850, and declare himself content. The man lived and breathed in Thomas’ fear. The more afraid that Thomas was, the more comfortable Carson felt.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Thomas sneered. He fumbled angrily with his traveling kit, fingers slipping slightly upon the oiled leather buckle. “For me to be afraid of you.”

“It seems the only emotion you’re able to label me with,” Carson said.  
Thomas temper popped, causing him to all but chuck his traveling kit into his opened valise.

“Gimme a moment,” Thomas said, his tone scathing, “I can gather a few more.”  
Namely, that of absolute cowardice and vile cruelty.

Thomas turned his back on Carson, fetching a pair of shoes which would need to be wrapped in a canvas sack before being placed inside his valise. But now, he was so angry that Thomas couldn’t seem to remember where he’d left his canvas sack in the first place. Was it in his closet-? He checked, wrenched open the doors with more force than strictly necessary.

“He was always going to die,” Carson said, back to that stupid condescending tone. “All you did was change the date and time. That was it. He could have died in the muck of London-”

Thomas was unable to focus, shifting from one drawer to the next while Carson just prattled on and on- “But instead he died as he wanted to, and you gave him that. Accept what that means, Thomas. That even if you failed, you succeeded in some-”

On and on and on and on and on and on and

“Yes I succeeded-” He could no longer control the hurricane. It broke past all facade of calm that he might have tried to put up before, unleashing itself with such a force that Thomas found himself suddenly screaming at the top of his lungs. “I succeeded in doing NOTHING!”

He whirled about, blazing eyes locked upon Carson, who was suddenly stock still like a buck in the scope of a hunter.

“JUST LIKE YOU!” Thomas could not control the words coming out of his mouth, nor how his finger came up to point like a vulture's claw at Carson’s broad chest. “You stood there, and watched him dying on the carpet, and you did NOTHING!”

“I-” Carson opened his mouth, but his words were washed away in the flood of Thomas’ rage.

“NOTHING!” Thomas screeched over the man. “You watched him choking on his own vomit and you did nothing! You went to my father, behind my back, and you had the nerve to try to weasel him out of here when he was so weak that he was pissing the bed!”

It was incredibly cathartic to scream at this man. To make him feel small and powerless just as he had done to Thomas for so many years.

“Did it make you feel good, Carson?!” Thomas could not resist. “Did it make you feel strong and brave, to isolate someone on death’s door?! To pick on the one man in this house who could not defend himself?!”

“I have never picked on anyone in my life!” Carson cried out.  
There was genuine hurt in his voice, and that Thomas would not stand.

In an absolute towering rage, unable to stop himself or control his hands, Thomas let out an almighty scream of wrath and snatched the first thing he could find. It happened to be an old flower vase holding a few gardenias he’d picked from the greenhouse. Thomas launched it across the room, his pitch amazing and his strength at its peak. As a result, Carson had less than a second to duck before the vase shattered against the bedroom door right where his face had been minutes earlier. Carson immediately brought his hands up over his head, his face white and expression livid. Never before in living memory had Thomas attacked Carson in such a way, and by god did it feel good!

“Fuck you!” Thomas screamed at the man. “You lying bastard! You made your mind up in 1914 that I was the devil because I was young and hurting and stupid! And you held it against me for the rest of my fucking life! Picked on me-?!” Thomas huffed and puffed, his pulse running like a rabbit through a field. “You targeted me for sport and you never let me forget how much you hated me! And you have the god damn nerve to stand here before me now and claim to have never picked on anyone!”

Carson had his hands up, as if trying to physically push Thomas’ rage back down.

“I don’t know where this rage is coming from-” Carson tried to say, but once again Thomas could not control his mouth. He could hear voices coming up the hall, the sounds of people approaching.

Let them see, he decided. Let them hear just how much he hated this man.

“Vile!” Thomas screamed the word like it was a curse that could physically split the man in twain. “Unnatural! That’s what I was to you! That’s what I am to you now! That’s what Peter is to you, and Louise! And Jack! And every last one of those men who came crawling over our threshold in dire need! You look at us and see nothing but insects! Bugs that you can squash beneath your boot!”

Suddenly, the doorway was full of people. There was Mary in her dressing gown, her hair slightly tousled as if she’d just gotten out of the bath. Cora was with her, her own hair in a long unbound braid over her shoulder. Both women were frightened of the shouting, shocked to see shards of china on the floor and Carson with his hands up.

“You are not like them-” Carson tried to say.

“Oh no-!” Thomas refused to allow Carson to hide behind the Crawley name like some kind of coward. Like some kind of roach. “No, no! You don’t get to do that tonight! You don’t get to pretend that I’m someone a different person just because you now know I’m a Crawley! You hated me on staff, well be a man and hate me now!”

“I never hated you!” Carson protested.

“LIAR!” Thomas screamed the word. He grabbed the pedestal upon which the vase had recently sat, and tossed it bodily across the room so that it crashed into the opposite wall and dropped in a heap to the floor. Mary let out a gasp, her hand at her throat.

“You pushed and you pushed and you pushed!” Thomas took a menacing step forward with each word, so that quite suddenly Carson was the one backing up with his hands still out. For the first time in his life, the man looked frightened of Thomas.

“How’s the job search going, Mr. Barrow?!” Thomas sneered the words, his voice in a mockingly deep tone. “We all know what you have to do! How long do you think his Lordship’s charity will last? Just find somewhere to go! Don’t get clever with me when you should be horsewhipped! Nature has turned you into something foul and unnatural! Go eat in the yard! Like an animal! Like a DOG!” Thomas stamped his foot at the wood. Carson jumped a bit, brown eyes wide with shock.

“You can pretend all you like in front of the family to be so nice and sweet,” Thomas’ volume began to decrease, but the acidity in his words rose tenfold as the final truth fell from his lips. “But I know the real you. I know the you that you reserve for the downstairs, for the common folk you can bully without consequence! You’re nothing more than a bully and a coward, a cruel unfeeling man who lives in a word so sheltered and small that one misplaced fork can send it into a tailspin!”

Carson was starting to find his tongue again, his aged cheeks turning hot pink at being chastised so brutally in front of Mary. Mary, to her credit, had yet to say anything; her hand was still at her throat.

“I find it funny to be lectured on bullying by you of all people-” Carson retorted, his tempo rapid as if fearing Thomas would cut him off again.

“Oh shuttup you miserable, bloated goat!” Thomas snarled. “I may have been sharp with Daisy and punched William but I never drove them to SUICIDE!”

Cora made an awful pained noise, as if the term ‘suicide’ had physically wounded her. She fled from the door, skittering off to god knows where. She was probably going to get his father, but Thomas didn’t care.

He didn’t care who came to the door, he’d still be furious.

“Talk to Carson, Thomas!” Thomas shrieked the word, shaking his hands above his head like he were praising the idea. “Everyone kept telling me to talk to you-- but why?! Why should I even waste my breath on you? You’re never going to change! You’re never going to admit when you’re wrong! You’re never going to see me as a person!”

Suddenly, Thomas caught sight of something white upon his bed; it was the canvas sack he’d been looking for. He stomped back over, snatching it up and hurriedly shoving two pairs of shoes inside to chuck it into his valise.

“That’s not true!” Carson protested.

“Oh get over yourself!” Thomas scoffed. “You’re just scared to have Mary learn you’re less than perfect! Mary-- your wonderful little Mary!” And suddenly, for just the tiniest moment, Thomas felt a bubble of rage within him begin to swell for his beloved twin sister. Why was it that Mary was blessed with Carson’s adoration and the rest of them had to beg for scraps? “God forbid you show any of that kindness to me!”

“And what of how you speak to anyone else, versus how you speak to me?” Carson demanded, gesturing at the heated air between them. “Where is the love, kindness, and gentleness that you exude for others when you so often face me?”

“There is no love in me for you!” Thomas shouted, his rage piping hot at Carson’s demand. Love? There would never be love! “There is nothing left for you, do you understand?! Everything that was inside of me has been sucked away!”

Cora was back, and she was not alone. Thomas had thought at first that she would bring his father, but instead she’d decided to bring Peter. Peter had paint upon his fingers; clearly he’d been in the throws of working on yet another masterpiece. Sidling around Mary and Carson, Peter came to stand by Thomas’ side. He suddenly felt emboldened, though Peter looked far from amused.

“A convenient excuse to run from your problems!” Carson declared.

“You think-” Thomas spluttered, agog at the man’s audacity. “You think that this is convenient for me?! You think the fact that my butler, my father’s trusted companion, my sister’s adoring savior, is a man who despises my very soul is convenient-?! Fucking hell-”

But Carson talked over him, just about fed up with his attitude: “I do not despise your soul! My god, you are dramatic. Your soul is not my concern-”

“Oh yeah?!” Thomas took an aggressive step forward so that he and Carson were too close for comfort. “Last year you didn’t even think I had a soul!”

“I know that, and I’m sorry!” Carson exclaimed. “I’ve said I was sorry before! How many times do I need to say it before you get it through your thick head-?”

What a bastard. Thomas yowled in defiance, looking to his mother and sister.

“Can you believe this?” Thomas demanded to the others. “I get agitated about him saying I didn’t have a soul, and I’m in the wrong? God, you’re a bastard.”

But Thomas had had enough. He was tired of talking to Carson. Frankly, he never wanted to speak to the man again. There was an uncomfortable silence as Thomas closed and locked his valise, picking it up to try and take it out the door. It would need to be brought downstairs so that tomorrow it could be loaded quickly into the motorcar. Yet when he tried to brush past Carson, Carson pushed him physically back so that Thomas had to stumble lest he fall. He gaped, affronted by the aggressive touch.

“Get out of my way!” Thomas cried out. He tried to push past again, but Carson grabbed him once more, physically holding him away from the door so that Thomas had to wrench free and stagger away lest he be able to feel Carson’s hot breath upon his face. Behind them, Cora and grown increasingly worried.

“Carson-” She began to beg, but Carson raised a gentle hand to cut her off.

“Thomas, I’m sorry,” Carson said, and though he spoke with a slightly stern tone, his contrition shown through. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you in 1926, but I didn’t think that you cared. Looking back, I can admit that I was in the wrong. But you need to be able to do that too in regards to your own mistakes.”

“And where the hell did I go wrong?” Thomas demanded.

“You treated everyone poorly because you assumed they would hate you for what you are. You never even bothered to ask them-”

“Ask them?!” Thomas looked around to Peter, who was making a sour face at Carson’s insistence. “Oh why don’t I just go on ahead and give them a blank police report to fill out!”

“You cannot use your peculiar nature as an excuse all of your life-” Carson was going to say more, but Thomas did not want to hear it. Once again, Thomas tried to push past him in a desperate bid for freedom, but Carson would not have it.

“An excuse?!” Thomas wrestled with Carson before wrenching away, furious at being denied space. “You’re unbelievable!”

He tried to escape again, but suddenly Carson physically shoved him so that he fell against the opposite wall. It forced him rather humiliatingly into an armchair, from which he had to stagger up again.

“No!” Carson barked the command. “We finish this here and now. No more running. You owe yourself and me that, after all the things you’ve put me through.”

“Put you through?!” Thomas could hardly get his words out, tripping over his own rage.

“Your nature has been the bane of my existence for years!” Carson declared, as if this savage insult would somehow paint Thomas in an unflattering shade of red. Instead, all it did was serve to make Thomas angrier.

“My nature has nothing to do with you!” He shrieked. “I’m not tryin’ to kiss you, am I?! Not everything that I do has to be about you, y’know! An’ besides you know nothing about my feckin’ nature! Or what was all that trollop about, saying you didn’t want a tour of my revolting world?! You want a tour?!”

“I know you use it as an umbrella every time you’ve had a fall out from your atrocious behavior!” Carson countered. He was mounting in the argument, gaining the higher ground and using it like a battering ram to force Thomas into submission. “I know every time you have a fall out, you claim it’s because you’re different when really it’s because you’re a spoilt child that never learned to grow up!”

“Oh-” Thomas had never been so angry in his life. The words were failing to form in his mouth, his gaze going red. “You absolute bastard!” Thomas dropped his valise, and for one moment he actually considered striking Carson, actually considered letting fur fly and cracking the man as hard as he could across the face. But the thunk of the valise on the ground seemed to have sprung life into Peter. He took Thomas by the elbow, effectively holding him back even as Thomas railed.

“Carson-” Mary was at her butler’s side, her voice tender and bitter, “This isn’t doing much good.”

“Lady Mary, kindly allow me to do what I must. I understand Thomas better than anyone else in this room,” Carson spoke in a rush; Thomas had never heard him raise his voice to his sister (or any matter of the family for that matter). Mary, for her part, was shocked into silence, pursing her plush lips in reproach.

“Oh yeah?” Thomas growled. “More than my mother? My twin sister? Peter?” It was inconceivable.

“I know exactly what you are,” Carson was icy and ruthless, and for the very first time in the argument Thomas started to feel small and squeamish just like he had when he’d been a footman. “You pretend to be a suspicious, ruthless, and cowardly creature made so by life’s cruelties. It’s a clever little barrier, but it’s flimsy and full of holes. Every mistake you make pokes another hole in that awful little mask of yours-”

“Every mistake I make?!” Thomas cut him off. “What mistake have I ever made but daring to try and be good enough for you!”

“You could have been good enough for me if you tried!”

“I tried every day!”

“You failed every day!” Carson thundered. “I treat you as I treated every other member of staff. I held you to a higher standard. You fell short. You messed up because you decided that you could not-”

“You never gave me a chance to succeed!” Thomas cried out. How pathetic and small he felt now, painted as scum before those he loved most.

“You never gave yourself a chance! Because you were too comfortable with losing! You wanted to lose, to be viewed as the dark horse because it was easier than getting off your ungrateful behind and trying to be a reasonable adult!” At this, Carson paused. With it came a horrible swelling silence in which Thomas tried to retort but could not. He’d never been so humiliated in his life, and as a result he could feel his throat beginning to clench tight and his eyes start to water.

“You can be so very selfish, Thomas,” Carson said, and though he spoke softly his words were laced with venom. “You hide every bit of goodness inside you from the people who want to see it most! I saw it in every caress that you gave Louise. Every dollop of soup you spooned him. Every mile you pushed him in that wheelchair. He was dying of tuberculosis and you held him in your arms like you were the patron saint of whores. That is… kindness, and empathy on a scale that I find remarkable.” Carson paused, his tone growing gentler. “But when I try to speak to you, it evaporates. And all I get is stone. Do you know how disrespectful and cold that is?”

“I find it very funny to be chastised about being disrespectful and cold,” Thomas’ voice was thick as if he suffered from a head cold, “By a man who just called me a failure and an ungrateful loser in front of the people I love most.”

“Do you want to know why I thought you didn’t have a soul, Thomas?” Carson asked.  
Thomas shook his head, unsure of what to do or say.

“Because you didn’t show me you had one,” Carson explained. “If I had seen but a drop of what you showed Louise, I would never have thought you soulless and heartless. I would have known how kind, gentle, and loving you can be, and it would have moved me deeply after the difficult life you’ve lived.”

“Difficult,” Thomas looked down at his feet. He wanted to wipe his eyes, but feared that if he did he would begin to cry. “You have no idea what my life has been.”

“Then tell me,” Carson said.

Where to begin, and what to say? How to make this man of all people understand every trial that he went through? Thomas felt awash on a sea of misery, and briefly contemplated trying to push his way out of the room again. But Peter still had his hand upon his elbow, and was waiting to hear what Thomas would say. Indeed, it seemed that everyone was waiting with baited breath.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be hated for loving someone,” Thomas said, thinking of Jack and Louise. Of how Louise had pretended to baa like a sheep while high on opium. “You don’t know what it’s like to be afraid to give someone a hug. Because someone might call the police if you show you have feelings-” Thomas could not talk for much longer on this subject while retaining his dignity. Any moment now, he was going to cry, and then it would all be over. So sore, so awful was this subject to him that he simply could not talk about it like a normal person. The very words were rough and grating, opening old wounds and making them bleed fresh.

“You don’t know what it’s like to see everyone else-” He gestured aimlessly, his throat clenching tight, “Get married… have babies… be happy… and all you’ve got is… all you’ve got…”

Is nothing.

“Is nothing-” Thomas splurted out the words, only to dissolve in a strange choking breath that was barely tears. It was as if the agony within him did not know how to come out anymore. Like someone had turned on a faucet only to find the pipe blocked.

Peter was behind him, hands sliding up Thomas’ arms to hold him tight about the chest and back. Peter, of all people understood. Peter, of all people, could truly fathom the weight upon Thomas’ shoulders.

And then, something strange happened. In his agony, laid low by Carson’s cruel truths with no where to run or hide, Thomas found himself returning to the crux of the argument, to a topic long since past.

“Why?” He begged Carson, tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks.

“He was dying in front of you, and you…” Thomas gestured at the man, fingers trembling, “You didn’t even call the doctor. Why didn’t you just call the doctor?”

And suddenly, Carson looked incredibly remorseful and guilty. At his side, Mary looked up expectantly. They were all waiting for an answer that Carson did not know how to give.

“He was dying,” Peter held him tighter from behind, his face buried into Thomas’ neck. “Why did you want him to suffer when you didn’t even know his name? He was so sick and scared, and you didn’t even care-”

“Thomas-” Peter was in his ear, his voice soothing and low.

“Oh Peter-” He could not handle it anymore. Thomas turned in Peter’s grip and threw his arms around his companion’s neck. It felt so good to collapse into Peter’s embrace. To allow someone to comfort him when he so pitifully needed it. Like a child, Thomas cried into Peter’s throat, allowing the man to hold him tight.

“... I was afraid,” Carson said. Thomas had never heard him sound so soft, so gentle before. It was like he was speaking to Mrs. Hughes instead. “I was afraid the police would find out. I didn’t know what would happen. I couldn’t control the events. I didn’t want him to die because he was a whore, Thomas. I know you don’t believe me, but that is the truth.”

“He was afraid, Thomas,” Peter whispered into his brow. “Let it go. Accept it. It’s human nature.”

“You put me in that bathtub,” Thomas whimpered, and though he spoke to Carson, it was Peter who replied.

“Your sadness put you in that bathtub, and he made you sad… but he was not the only thing, and you cannot blame him for your suicide attempt. That is not fair on him. That.. is bullying.” Peter said. Though it was awful to accept, and painful to realize, Thomas knew it was the truth. That as much as Carson had poked and prodded him, goading him to the bathtub’s icy rim, he had not been the only reason that Thomas had been broken by the end. He’d been one of the reasons, but not the only one. He was merely the only one that Thomas could identify with a name and a form… and he supposed in the end, that made Carson an easy target.

“He said things he can’t take back, and so did you,” Peter petted his hair gently. Thomas was surprised to find that he’d stopped crying. “He’s learning, Thomas. We’re all learning, that’s the way life goes. I know you want to blame somebody because that feels better than looking inside, but you are smarter than that… you know the truth.”

And the worst part was? He did. He did know the truth, it had merely felt good and vindictive to scream at Carson.

Peter pulled back, wiping at the condensation upon Thomas’ pale cheeks with his own thumbs. Thomas did not know how to meet the man’s eyes.

“Look at me,” Peter said. Thomas had no choice but to relent, and glanced up ashamedly to find that Peter was waiting with a sad if gentle smile.

“Carson is not your enemy,” Peter said. “And you’re not his. All you are is different, and all he is is traditional. That’s all this is, Thomas. It’s an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”

“It’s not fair,” Thomas said thickly.

“It rarely is,” Peter agreed. “Now why don’t you talk to Carson instead of screaming at him, and tell him that. I think you’ll find he has something to say on the subject.”

So Thomas did as Peter bade, turning back to Carson who was waiting expectantly (though he did look very nervous). “I’m not foul,” Thomas said. “You said I was foul, but I’m not.”

“I know,” Carson did not try to hide it. “And I shouldn’t have said it. At the time, I believed it, but now I know I was wrong. I was merely furious that you’d do something as brazen and disrespectful as kiss a man in his sleep. No matter who you are or what your nature is, that was terribly wrong of you. You pressed that kiss upon an unsuspecting person, it was practically assault. And just so you know, I would say the same if Daisy or Anna did it.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Thomas could only remember too well how frightened and helpless he’d felt. “O’Brien said things… I thought… I thought I’d read the signs right. But I was wrong. I couldn’t ask him.”

“Why not?” Carson asked.

“Because I was scared,” Thomas said.

“Well so was I,” Carson said.

For a long moment, there was a silence between them. Before it had been full of anger and cruelty. Now, it felt oddly freeing and weightless. So long, the pair of them had lived beneath this awful immovable weight. Now that it was gone, it felt like they were able to finally see one another truly. Thomas didn’t know where to begin, or what to say. He had a lifetime worth of questions and thoughts to express to Carson, and wondered if the man felt the same.

“I will tell you this,” Carson said. “Because I need you to know the truth. I asked your father for Louise to be removed from the house not because I wanted him to suffer, but because I did not want you to suffer. I was scared that you were going to get tuberculosis, even with the injection. I have seen that awful disease up close before, and I knew as soon as I heard it was tuberculosis that Louise was going to die. Tuberculosis killed my grandmother, Thomas.”

“What?” Cora was amazed at this secretive insight into Carson’s distant past.

And suddenly, Thomas realized just how close he’d come to dying of tuberculosis. No wonder Carson had been so nervous. Of everyone else in the house, Thomas had been the one to bath Louise, feed him, change him, rock him to sleep. He’d been as attentive as a mother to her babe, and it had nearly cost him his health. What if he had ended up contracting tuberculosis? Would he have survived it? Would he even have spread it to more of the house?

“You did everything you could,” and so they returned to square one of this insane conversation. “You gave him one last night from his childhood… and a death of his own choosing. And there is great love in that. You did everything right, so content yourself with that.”

“... I guess,” Thomas finally choked out. His voice was toneless, too tight to truly be his own.

Carson took a step forward, then another one. Then a third, so that suddenly the pair of them were standing right before one another, closer than they’d ever been before. Part of Thomas was terrified, another equal part mystified. Carson had been like a giant, a god, all of his life. Now he was just a man, much wiser and stronger than Thomas.

Frightened, Thomas looked up into Carson’s ancient and weary brown eyes. He found them full of compassion for the first time in his life.

And then, Carson leaned forward, and brought Thomas to his breast with his great heavy arms.

The smell of Carson’s livery was so familiar, the heat of his body so warm. It was like Thomas had been wrapped up in everything that brought him comfort. He’d never imagined a reality where Carson might hold him like this, and to finally have it for himself was akin to the first man who’d ever saw fire. He was afraid to touch, lest the magic vanish. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, an ache in his bones was filled.

Carson brought his massive hand up and touched the back of Thomas’ shoulder blades.

“... I’m sorry,” Thomas’ voice was weak and small, slipping out like the squeak of a church mouse who’d been trodden on. “I’m sorry for what I said.”

“I know,” Carson assured him. There was no bad blood between them, not anymore at least.

“I don’t think you’re a bloated goat.”

“I know.”

“...I mean… not all the way-”

“Hush.”  
And so he did.


	15. The Perks of Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas travels to America and learns the ways of his grandmother, Mrs. Levinson.  
> Meanwhile, Peter finally confronts the truth within himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this chapter. The next chapter will probably be the final one of this fanfiction, though there may be two... I'm not too sure. It depends upon what flows more naturally. Either way, this story is almost concluded. I will be finishing up a fanfiction commission (and depending upon what the commissioner wants I may post it to AO3) and then will be starting work on a few other DA projects. Leave a comment and let me know if you would rather have, for the next work:  
> A. a Robert/Thomas omegaverse story that shows what would have happened in Spare the Rod if Thomas had wound up with him instead.  
> B. A Bates/Thomas omegaverse story featuring a prostitute!Thomas and a murderous!Bates  
> or  
> C. a Baxter/Thomas friend story featuring Baxter thinking she's losing her mind and Thomas having to do something very very bad to save her.

After screaming at Carson and throwing a vase, Thomas felt unbelievably free. He slept like a log that night, exhausted after his forray, but the next morning was woken quite early by Bates who helped him to dress and head to the motorcar. Their traveling party was small, with only Cora, Baxter, Thomas, and Junior included. Despite the early hour, the rest of the family were up to say goodbye, with Carson overseeing the loading of luggage onto the trunk. It felt weird, to stand before the man when less than twelve hours ago Thomas had been screaming his lungs out at the man. But Carson carried on like it was business as usual, double checking that all the straps were tight and no one had forgotten their hat.

Thomas, Baxter, and Cora bid their respective parties goodbye, with Peter shaking Thomas’ hand only to hold on too long. They left on a tide of mist, and headed for Liverpool where they boarded The Majestic. There was something rather ominous about boarding a steam ship in the shadow of a memorial to the Titanic, particularly when The Majestic was a sister ship of the fated voyager. Still, Thomas took it in his stride and tried not to worry as he and Cora made themselves comfortable in their respective suites. They shared a salon, which boasted a fireplace and a port hole that showed the ocean. It was remarkable how much luxury could be crammed into a ship; Thomas had only ever traveled in 3rd class before now, and felt slightly shunted when he recalled the crammed bunks and the dirty sinks.

The first night on board The Majestic, Thomas sent word through a steward that Baxter should dine with he and Cora in first class. He did this in spite of tradition and societal rules, desperately wanting to thumb his nose at all the finery he’d been denied when a servant. Twittering and fretful, Baxter looked like a spinster aunt crouch at the corner of their round table. Thomas kept having to yank her in close; she stuck out like a sore thumb in her hand-me-down dress of mauve, but Thomas likened her to an angel among a bed of snakes. She was probably the most authentic person in the room.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Baxter even looked over her shoulder, as if she half expected for a policeman to appear and drag her out of the dining hall. “Mr. Carson would be furious.”

Cora just smiled and waved aside her fears. “I won’t have you eating alone in your room every night for a week. It’s silly, and no one has to know the truth.”

“You’re a distant cousin,” Thomas agreed. It was a feasible enough lie, particularly when Baxter would only be on the ship for a week at most. Who honestly would care either way? As if it was anyone’s business.

“I don’t know how distant I’d have to be to pull that off,” Baxter sighed, palming her hair to test the hold of her many pins. “I’m not fashionable.”

“Well, technically, you were my next door neighbor,” Thomas offered. Baxter’s lip curled at the thought.

“Let’s not talk about those horrid people,” Cora shuddered at the memory of the Barrow trial. “It’ll put me off my food.”

“Here here,” Baxter took a sip of water, completely ignoring the wine that the waiter had poured for her. Slightly mischievous, Thomas pushed her glass forward so that it was sitting right in front of her.

“It’s delicious,” He teased.

Baxter gave him a look of dry derious, sat her water down, and timidly  
plucked up the wine to take a small sip.

She licked her lips and sat the wine back down.

“Eh?” Thomas smiled.

“Child,” Baxter muttered. Cora pinched Thomas tenderly upon his arm.

“Stop teasing Baxter and eat your food,” Cora warned.

“Anna said that you called Mr. Carson a goat,” Baxter said. It was banter, and clearly a one-up for demanding she drink wine.

“Heresy. Lunacy. Blasphemy.” Thomas shrugged, shoveling a fork full of broccoli into his mouth.

Cora laughed behind her wine glass.

 

 

The rest of the dinner passed in genial talk, with the conversation never dipping deeper than that of the weather or simple downstairs gossip (Apparently Andy had been caught snogging Daisy, and had been smacked by Mrs. Patmore with one of her larger spatulas). That night, Thomas lay in bed dreaming of the downstairs and how he’d once fit in beside them. Once, it had been a sore subject, and had made him feel out of place even amongst his own family. Now, Thomas felt certain of who he was as a Crawley. It was no longer the pain of his heart. Instead, something new was throttling his breast, warning him of feelings he was hiding from.

He thought of Peter, and how the man had held him when he had wept before Carson. It had been so soothing, so undeniably wonderful, to know that someone cared for him. Perhaps, in a way, Thomas wanted more. But every time he imagined it, no matter how fleeting, the memory of Philip’s suicide and Louise dying in the woods came back to haunt him. When it would be his turn, or Peter’s? How would they die? Would Thomas succumb to suicidal urges a second time? Would Peter’s malaria return and take him too? Somehow, Thomas’ brain could not allow him to picture a happy ending. He’d been told for too long that it was not possible. Now, he simply believed it whether it was actually true or not.

The rest of the week past with relative ease. Life aboard a fine steam ship like The Majestic revolved around meal times and promenades upon the decks. Certain decks were meant only for the upper classes, but Thomas would often take Baxter for walks and point out the ridiculous lavish lifestyle of his peers. Junior was spotted once or twice, mostly when he accompanied Cora and Thomas to meals, but he kept to himself for a large part of the journey. Somewhere below deck, Thomas knew that Arion was probably losing his mind. He kept wanting to visit but being rebuffed by the staff. They warned him it was too dangerous for a man of his position to go downstairs into the storage holds. It exhausted him, so when he was turned away for the sixth time, Thomas went to his room and simply slept the rest of the day away.

His thoughts were too morbid for decent company.

 

 

Six days after boarding The Majestic, land was spotted again. It came as a blasting call from top deck, and one that rang out over the whole ship. They had arrived at Manhattan Harbor, and the Statue of Liberty was viewable from the upper decks. People were cramming the rails, eager to see the sight of that fair lady and her lifted torch. England felt like another world entirely compared to the youth and splendor that was America. Where England was old and rigid, she was young and loose. She promised fortune for the bold, and freedom for those who needed to get away. There was this aura that swept over the entire land, which seemed to promise that no no one and everyone was an American. America was not a race of people. It was an idea, and it revolved entirely around money. So long as you could make money, anything was in your grasp.

When The Majestic docked, three long blasts from the short stacks signaled that it was time for passengers to disboard. The next several hours would be spent with luggage being unloaded from the lower docks and a train of motorcars rolling along the promenade picking up the more affluent passengers. Several gangplanks were lowered, with the upper, middle, and lower class disembarking separately. Thomas and Cora stuck to each other’s sides, the pair of them heading down the upperclass ramp only to search in vain for Baxter. She wasn’t easy to find, but mercifully the crowd parted and waved like a hoard of midges to reveal Baxter looking clueless and a little frightened. It was, after all, her first time in America. It didn’t seem that she liked it.

“M’lady!” Baxter trotted up, clutching her weatherbeaten valise to her chest.

“Welcome to America,” Thomas said to her. “If you have money, you’re welcome.”

“Then I’ll see myself out,” Baxter muttered under her breath.

“It feels like ages since I’ve been home,” Cora took in great lungfuls of sea air, her face turned upward to gaze at the Statue of Liberty far off in the harbor. “Don’t tell your father I missed it.”

“Strange,” Thomas wondered at the statue, rather captivated by its torch. “To think I’m half-American.”

“Is it so terrible a concept?” she asked.

“Nauseating,” Thomas grinned. But his good mood was punctured when he heard the tell-tale whinny of Arion voicing his distress. He was being unloaded from the cargo hold by several nervous deckhands, each of which were desperately tripping over the other. Arion was rearing, paws circling wildly in the air. If they weren’t careful, someone was going to get kicked!

Without explaining where he was going, Thomas took off, running for the unloading dock which was now a hodgepodge maze of valises, crates, burlap sacks, and motorcars. As he reached Arion, Thomas threw up his hands spreading them wide to protect Arion from getting hurt.

“Ey!” Thomas shouted, slightly cross. He pressed himself against Arion’s heaving flank, holding him tight about his breast until he stilled. “Easy… Sh…” He stroked Arion’s skin, cupping his muzzle. Arion’s ears were swiveling back and forth, soaking up all the wild sounds of the dock. Yet after a few moments of soothing, he seemed to settle. Thomas pulled back, cautiously taking Arion’s reigns and pulling him away from the traumatized dock workers. Up the plank they went, exiting the loading dock and stepping on American soil (or concrete) for the first time. Arion didn’t seem too impressed with America, which was a shame. Thomas rather liked the place, with its modernistic amenities and flashy billboards. If only England will a little more like America, he wondered.

Junior had descended from the ship, and was practically bouncing upon his heels at the prospect of getting Arion ready to ride. He took Arion forcibly from Thomas’ grip, controlling the reigns and pulling the horse along so that Thomas was left feeling slightly foolish elbow to elbow with Baxter and his mother.

“Let me ride him-” Thomas begged. “He’s scared.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Junior shot him down with an incredulous look. “You can’t ride in the stocks, can you? Now go.”

It was true, given that they were purportedly going to be traveling with Mrs. Levinson from the docks on a two hour journey to her estate outside of New York City. Thomas felt slightly nervous about meeting his maternal grandmother. The last time he had seen her, she’d been attending Mary’s wedding to Matthew. He’d been a servant then, and below her interest. Her maid, Reed, had been an absolute pillock, riling Daisy up with talk of throwing off the monarchy and embracing rebelion.

“Where could she be-” he heard Cora wonder to himself. But his mother needn’t have worried. Martha Levinson’s broad form materialized through the crowd of hasty travelers, dripping in fine furs. At her side was surely her chauffeur, whose buttons of polished brass gleamed in the steam billowing off of the docked ships.

“Cora,” Mrs. Levinson opened her arms, her velvet gloved hands reaching out to caress her beloved daughter's face. They kissed fondly upon the cheek, and Mrs. Levinson’s rouge lips left the tiniest mark upon Cora’ s pale skin. Her hat, jauntily placed upon a mess of fine auburn curls, looked like something straight out of the picture shows with fine peacock feathers and embellishments of golden thread. Everything about her screamed wealth. Everything about her seemed to insist that she was more than her fellow men. Where the English tended to hide, Americans boasted loudly and proudly.

“Mother,” Cora was obviously relieved, and though she smiled often, there was something new in her expression that Thomas had never seen before. It was as if his mother was a little girl again, suddenly less of an adult and more carefree about the world.

“How I’ve dreamed of this moment,” Mrs. Levinson wondered, “My darling daughter, back again in America.” But even as Mrs. Levinson made to go on, her attention was captivated by Thomas. Now, quite suddenly, he was the center of her powerful gaze and suddenly felt like a vole being captured by a hawk. Mrs. Levinson stepped forward, reaching out with her velvet gloved hands again to carefully stroke at his own cheek. The touch was featherlight, and made him shudder at the sensation.

“And here you are,” Mrs. Levinson wondered. “James.”

“Here I am,” Thomas agreed. But instead of looking pleased, Mrs. Levinson looked terribly sad.

“Cora tells me everything and still it took me ages to come to terms with it,” Mrs. Levinson admitted. “I even made my own inquiries into the science, but when I saw the results, I knew it couldn’t be denied. Now that I see you before me again, I can see evidence of your great grandfather in you. You’re the spitting image of my dearest father. My god…” Mrs. Levinson shook her head, dismayed. “How did I not see it before?”

Thomas shrugged. He’d made peace with the ignorance long ago. “Who can say,” He mused.

Mrs. Levinson tutted, and spread her arms wide again to wrap him up like a babe within her furs. Thomas was both smothered and protected from the American smog. “My dear little one,” Mrs. Levinson mused in his ear. “My only grandson.” She pulled back after a moment, and Thomas was surprised to find that her blue eyes were watering.

“Come,” Mrs. Levinson, urged them all. “We have a lot to talk about.”

 

~*~

 

Martha Levinson lived in a massive estate called Lyndhurst, which sat upon the Hudson River. It was a gothic revival, and the sort of place one might dream up if they were imagining a story about witches and wizards. Queerly enough, it even had its own private bowling alley (apparently Mrs. Levinson was fond of the game), along with massive orchards that stretched for miles. Blue and white checkered marble tile fought for dominance upon oak floorboards that surely were originals. Painted ceilings and finely wrought fireplaces all seemed to have been envisioned in a Victorian dream. What American’s lacked in history, they made up for in opulence. It was also increasingly apparent that Mrs. Levinson had more money than Downton Abbey could ever dream of. Where Downton had had to cut back staff, Lyndhurst had kept up the standards of upper class living. Though Mrs. Levinson lived alone, she had an entire army or maids and footmen who brought her anything and everything her heart could desire. The influx of visitors only made the commotion greater. Cora was greeted with such warmth and delight by the staff, you could have sworn she was their daughter instead of Mrs. Levinson’s. She even got to stay in her old room, which apparently was kept just as she liked it despite the fact that she seldom visited. Thomas was put in the blue room, which was a handsome corner complete with an ancient oak desk and a view out onto the orchards. Junior was put across the hall, which normally wouldn’t have been a problem save for the fact that upon arrival at Lyndhurst Junior had started barking commands regarding Thomas’ eating habbits and extra curricular activities. Where Thomas had imagined he might be able to speak with his grandmother and get to know her, Junior seemed determined to dominate every facet of his day. Thomas woke early, went for a jog around the estate, ate a breakfast of one (1) grapefruit with salt, and then went out to ride Arion until lunchtime where he was given quarter portions of whatever was being served. No bread, no sugar, no butter, no anything save for Junior and his orders.

Frankly, Thomas was both in heaven and hell. He was well shot of the man.

It was clear that Mrs. Levinson did not like Junior’s intrusions, and often glowered at the man if he came too close. For the most part, however, she doted on Cora and tended to keep out of Junior’s way. Thomas, therefore, had to take shelter whereever he could. Mercifully, his most stallwart ally was now fully over his irritation at having been kept in a storage hold, and back to his normal grumpy self. Arion did not particularly like Junior, but he certainly enjoyed the stables of Lyndhurst, along with the sweet hay and apples he was gifted. Frankly, Thomas felt the horse was getting more of a vacation than he was.

It was about four days since Thomas had arrived at Lyndhurts, and he was hiding from Junior in the stables. Arion’s mane had become tangled, so Thomas was brushing it out. In his head, a thousand thoughts were battling for dominance. Peter, Junior, Mrs. Levinson, Carson… all of it just ran circles around his ears until he felt nauseaus. He wished, not for the first in his life, that he could be happy and not have to worry about the future.

“It’ll be alright,” Thomas told Arion. Arion did not seem entirely sure about the matter. “Me an’ you. You an’ me... “ He leaned in and placed the softest of kisses upon Arion’s muzzle. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

“If you love him so much you ought to marry him.”

Thomas all but had a heart attack, his pulse flying through the roof at the unexpected intrusion! He gasped, a hand to his throat as he whipped around. There, in the door of the stall, was Mrs. Levinson of all people. Why had she come out here? How long had she been standing behind him, with him none the wiser?

“Mrs. Levinson,” Thomas stammering heart was beginning to slow down, but by god… that scare had probably aged him four years. “God, you scared me to death.”

She’d pinned her hair back beneath a fine painted silk scarf, with a cream blouse and navy pin skirt that seemed to make her look twenty years younger than she actually was. Relaxing against the mottled wood of the stall, she was perfectly at ease even if she wasn’t in a fancy dining room. How different she was than the Dowager…

“Mrs. Levinson?” she scoffed. “I am your grandmother, young man. I demand you call me Granny.”

Thomas couldn’t help but smirk at that. “Granny, then.”

She stepped forward, cautious not to tread in horse manure, Thomas was slightly nervous of her encroaching Arion’s personal space after all the hustle and bustle of travel, but he needn’t have worried. Mrs. Levinson had this strange confidence about herself which put even Arion at ease. She petted his neck, fingering at his fine black mane.

“So here he is,” Mrs. Levinson wondered. “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you thanking me for?” She quipped. “You had nothing to do with it.”  
Thomas couldn’t help but laugh at that. He resumed brushing Arion, allowing Mrs. Levinson to toy with Arion’s mane so that she might make small braids out of the coarse hair.

“Isn’t it strange,” Mrs. Levinson mused. “We’re family and we hardly know one another. That doesn’t seem right.”

“Not much to know,” Thomas assured her.

“Is that so?” She didn’t seem convinced. “What about the fact that you’re a homosexual.”

Thomas stopped mid stroke of the brush, slowly letting his arm drop till it hung limply at his side. Mrs. Levinson just grinned at him, coy like that cat who’d caught the canary.

My god, she was a tiger.

“Oh I see,” Thomas said sarcastically. “So we’re going right for the throat, are we.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” She said. “Give me that brush if you’re not going to help.” She took Arion’s brush from him, and began to brush the opposite side of his neck. Content to be pampered, Arion stooped over and began to eat hay.

“So are you?” she asked when Thomas did not reply.

He did not answer straight away, instead picking up a small spade so that he might begin removing manure from Arion’s stall.

“Yes,” he finally said when the silence became too much to bear.

“You can look at me, I’m not going to kill you,” Mrs. Levinson sounded slightly annoyed. Thomas glanced up to find her grinning at him, as if she found him weirdly amusing.

“You know, it’s funny,” She said as she continued to brush. “We never really had a homosexual before. I think my great aunt Imelda looked to other women. She certainly liked to bath with her best friend.” She used quotes around the words ‘best friend’, still grinning from ear to ear.

“Cora told me about the Dark Horse,” Mrs. Levinson admitted. “And Philip. Frankly, I know a great deal.”

Slightly ashamed to be called out for her past sins, Thomas tried to change the subject. “I suppose you’re her confident, given that you’re her mother. It must be nice to keep up even if you’re overseas.”

“You could say that,” Mrs. Levinson said. She even stopped brushing to open Arion’s gate for him so that Thomas could deposit the manure into a cart outside. “Don’t tell your uncle, but Cora is my favorite child. She certainly was the one to inherit my spirit.”

Thomas just kept shoveling. Mrs. Levinson, however, was growing more stern.

“If you’re anything like my darling father, then you’re too smart to throw your life away on drugs.” She said.

“I’ve been clean since last November,” Thomas promised her.

“That’s what Cora said, but sometimes children can lie,” Mrs. Levinson warned. “Like about whether or not they’re happy.”

Thomas blinked taken aback. “I am happy,” He promised her.

Mrs. Levinson cocked an eyebrow. “Now why don’t I believe that.”

He considered the energy that it might take to argue with her, and how exhausted he’d be when he inevitably lost. Arguing with Martha Levinson was just about the stupidest thing anyone could do. They’d have better luck arguing with a philosopher.

He sighed, and sat down upon a lidded water barrel. Setting the spade aside, Thomas took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow and temples. All the while, Mrs. Levinson watched him with a knowing smirk.

“Why do you have this trainer over here, spoiling our quality time?” She demanded.

“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted.

“You don’t like him, do you.”

“No.”

“Well I don’t like him either. Anyone who calls my grandchild fat has made an enemy of me, flat out,” Mrs. Levinson swore.

“He wants me to be a professional jockey,” Thomas grumbled. “But it was never supposed to be like that!”

Mrs. Levinson rolled her eyes, seemingly unsurprised by Thomas’ explanation.

“And let me guess whose idea this was,” Mrs. Levinson grumbled. “The dastardly Englishman who stole my daughter away from me?”

“Pretty much,” Thomas said.

“Well,” Mrs. Levinson scoffed. “Kick the trainer to the curb and lets get on with it! We’re Americans, we don’t have time to dilly dally with formalities. That’s why the English never understand.”

And just like that, Thomas realized that he’d been letter Junior heckle him about despite the fact that he had every authority to make the man stop. Rather amazed at his sudden change of prospects, Thomas suddenly felt lighter. What the hell was he doing here? Why had he even let it get this far?

“Keep that up and I’ll start singing the Star Spangled Banner,” Thomas grinned. My, had a day ever been this glorious before?

“Oh say can you see,” Mrs. Levinson said with a smile. She extended a hand to him, pulling him clean off the water barrel.

“Come on,” She said. “Let’s take a walk. I want you to tell me all about this charming young man your mother mentioned you were so fond of. Peter, she called him?”

They left the stables, stepping back out into the open air where the setting sun was painting everything in warm shades of orange and pink. Somehow, the air felt sweeter to him, though nothing had really changed.

“Well, he’s Bertie’s cousin,” Thomas explained. “That’s Edith’s husband.”

“Ah yes, Bertie,” Mrs. Levinson linked her arm in his own, despite the fact that he was technically filthy and she was wearing a cream blouse. “I like him. Is Peter the same?”

“Oh yes,” Thomas promised, “He’s very nice.”

“Mm?” Mrs. Levinson’s grin had turned wicked. She was peering up into Thomas’ eyes expectantly.

“What?” Thomas asked.

“Don’t ‘what’ me,” She warned. “Cora mentioned you two are rather close. That you cuddle up every chance you get.”

“We do not cuddle,” Thomas said.

“Well that’s a shame,” she said. “Because I want to see you settled.”

“With Peter?” He asked, incredulous. What a silly idea, him marrying a man!

“With a man that makes you happy,” She corrected him.

“Oh Granny…” he sighed, “We both know that can never be. Two men can’t be married-”

“Enough of this English nonsense,” Martha Levinson would hear none of it. “Never’s and can’ts… we Americans shrugged it off years ago, and we’ve been better off for it ever since. You know who tells me no?” She asked. “No one!” She snapped before Thomas could answer. “Because I’m an independant, modern woman, and if you must be a homosexual then you must be a modern independant one. Not a sniveling, whining, passive one that accepts ‘no’s.”

“Granny, I could get arrested,” Thomas said, for it seemed in all her talk of independence and modernity, Mrs. LEvinson had rather missed the boat.

Without missing a beat, Mrs. Levinson replied. “I’ll bail you out. I’m stinking rich and have more lawyers than you have pearly teeth.”

He could not succinctly put into words all that it meant to him, to hear that his grandmother would do such a thing for him. In the heart of England’s beating breast there lay an innate fear of scandal, of everyone knowing what your sins were. But in seemed in America that sin was yet another currency to be expended at will. What Thomas feared, his grandmother seldom batted an eyelash at.

“You know,” Thomas mused as they walked back to the house. “I think you’re my favorite grandmother.”

“Then my work is done,” Mrs. Levinson replied with a smirk.

 

 

That night, Thomas went behind Junior’s back and traveled downstairs into the kitchens where he met his grandmother’s chef, Mr. Tilth. He was a beefy, boisterous man with a warm and pleasant demeanor, and was more than happy to life Junior’s orders and resume giving Thomas normal meals. Delighted with himself, Thomas ate dinner that night with full portions while Junior glowered at him from across the table.

 _Soon I’ll be shot of you,_ Thomas thought with pride.

That night, he slept better than he had in quite a while, and the next morning when Junior rose to wake him, Thomas did not answer the hammering upon his door. Three hours later, he went down for breakfast only to find that Junior was not there, and quickly devoured not one but two croissants. He even ate a chocolate one, and all but sucked on his fingers while his grandmother grinned from ear to ear. He’d be happy if he never ate another sodding grapefruit in his life.

That day, Cora and Mrs. Levinson went into town to do a bit of shopping, leaving Thomas to mill about the estate doing whatever he pleased. He decided to have a bit of ful and go bowling with the footmen, who all but fought over the privilege to have the morning off and be Thomas’ companion. In the end, the first footman got the spot (which wasn’t a surpise) and he turned out to be a fun chap named Daniel who was rather good at bowling. The pair of them went again and again, trying to outdo each other, and only stopped when Daniel got the call from the butler (a grumpy short man with a bald spot) that he was needed for polishing. Deprived of his playmate, Thomas wandered out into the paddock and found Arion doing circles around a barrel he’d clearly kicked over. Thomas managed to right the barrel, but was rewarded with Arion kicking it over again. It began a weird game between the two of them, and might have lasted for a while had Thomas not been caught out by the approach of a very angry jockey trainer coming over the hill.

“Oh bugger,” Thomas muttered to himself. It seemed that Junior would not be put off any longer.

“Did my ears mistake me, or did I hear you ate a croissant over breakfast this morning?” Junior demanded. He spoke as if he was Thomas’ father, irate at his shoddy behavior. The man jumped the fence into the paddock, with that sort of set look upon his face which denoted hell might be about to boil over.

“No,” Thomas replied, channeling his grandmother’s spirit as he said, “I ate two croissants. One had chocolate in it.”

“Oh, you’re gonna get cheeky?” Junior snorted, hands upon his hips. “Alright then, let's start with laps around the house. Say, as many as it takes for you to lose your attitude.”

But Thomas had absolutely no intention of doing any laps. So instead of hopping off and doing as Junior bade, Thomas turned an about face and gave his ‘trainer’ a rather drawing grin.

“You know,” He began, rather coyly. “I’ve been thinking-”

“Less thinking, more laps-”

“You remember when Henry Jelliss won that race, and my father said you could come over to the house for dinner?” Thomas asked.

Junior was slightly taken aback at Thomas’ unwillingness to do as he was bid. “Yes?”

“Yeah, that’s because he wanted me to race, not me.” Thomas patted Arion’s neck rather fondly. “And I have just realized something very important.” He glanced at Junior with a haughty smile. “I’m not fat. And I don’t want to race. And I think we’re done.”

All the blood fled from Junior’s face. It was as if Thomas had slapped him. “You drug me all the way out here, you wasted my time, for two choclate croissants and daddy issues?! And you think I’m going to go away just like that?!”

But Thomas had known what it was to fear other men all his life. All he had to do was channel the energy of his grandmother as he replied. “Yes.”

Junior deflated, and Thomas felt slightly guilty when he saw that the man was almost near tears. Junior slumped onto a crate that held extra hay, miserable as he put his head into his hands.

“Why would you do this to me?” Junior wondered, aghast. “Why? What have I done to deserve this?”

“Put me on a diet, called me fat, and acted like you could run my life.”

“But I’m the trainer!” Junior wailed, prostrating himself before Thomas. “You’re my jockey! This is how it works! There’s a system to these things and you have to trust me!”

“But I don’t want to be your jockey,” Thomas replied. “I want to ride my horse and look cute for all the nice boys. Why can’t you understand that.”

“But imagine how cute you’d look in silks! Eh?! And you’d be fitter!” Junior was grappling at straws by this point, and both men knew it.

“Junior, it’s not happening,” Thomas said. “I’m not fat, and I’m not your jockey. I suggest you get over it now before you say anything else silly.”

Junior sagged, all the hope fleeing his ancient face.

“I don’t want to diet,” Thomas shrugged, patting Arion’s neck. “I like sugar and bread, preferably at the same time.”

“Alright- alright!” Junior rose up from the crate, wringing his hands as he approached Thomas. “So you don’t want to be a jockey, that’s fine with me. I’ve got riders I can supply. But I need Arion. I need him desperately. You have to understand, I saw this horse being born! I’ve known the worth of this horse from the very moment his heart started beating. So why don’t you share him with me and we can split the winnings!”

It was evident from the pained expression in Junior’s face that he was absolutely distraught by the idea of losing Arion. Thomas was rather bemused. Could it be that all this time it hadn’t been Thomas as a jockey that Junior had wanted, but Arion as a horse?

“He really means that much to you?” Thomas wondered.

“Yes,” Junior made no secret of the fact. “And you can eat all the chocolate croissants you want. Just let me have Arion.”

“But I won’t give him to you entirely,” Thomas said. “He’s my personal horse. You can have him for a few races out of the year, that’s it.”

“Fine, fine I’ll take it!” Junior wasn’t willing to push his luck. “But please…” He paused, exhausted by the foray. “Please.”

Thomas could tell when a man was being contrite with him. He shrugged, smiling fondly as he kissed Arion’s muzzle.

“So it’s a deal then,” Thomas agreed. “I stop dieting, you go home, and next year when the races begin again you reach out to me and we’ll pick a time.”

Junior sighed, running a wrinkled hand across his graying face. Clearly today had not gone the way he’d wanted.

“Deal,” Junior whispered, turning away and walking off across the fields of the Levinson estate. Thomas knew that he ought to feel slightly guilty. After all, he’d agreed to this whole nonsense and had drug Junior far away from home only to tell him the deal was off. But Thomas had been enduring Junior for far too long, and frankly had been much nicer than usual. It seemed his patience, and his endurance, had both reached their limits.

Beside him, Arion munched on hay, completely unaware his world had once again changed.

 

~*~

 

When Cora and Mrs. Levinson returned home, it was to the shocking news that Junior had left for Manhattan. Thomas had been good enough to buy him a return ticket to England, and hoped that he wouldn’t have to hear from the man for a very long time. Mrs. Levinson was much too smug over coffee and biscuits, gloating to Cora that Thomas was a natural in the ways of American dealings. That afternoon, Thomas rang England (surely an expensive phone call) to alert his family to the fact that he was shot of Junior and was not becoming a jockey. All this news he relayed through Peter, because Robert was out and Tom wouldn’t come to the phone. Thomas wasn’t displeased; he’d much rather talk to Peter any day of the week.

He gushed, telling the man everything about America, Mrs. Levinson, and Junior.

 _“So clearly your grandmother’s not that bad, eh?”_ Peter teased.

“No,” Thomas smiled. “She’s still a little more spontaneous than I’m used to, but I guess that’s alright.”

_“How’s Arion?”_

“Still a little cooped up from the ship ride over. Pissed at me.”

_“And you?”_

“Tired,” Thomas admitted. “Missing home. Missing-” He stopped, slightly taken aback to realize he’d almost said ‘missing you’. That would never do. “Things,” he finished lamely.

There was a beat on the other side of the phone.

 _“I should imagine those things might miss you too,”_ Peter mused.

Thomas flushed; it seemed that his attempt to hide from the truth had been in vain. The idea that Peter missed him, however, put butterflies into his stomach. But he could not talk about love with Peter. He stood upon the brink, and knew that all it would take was a little push before he went tumbling over and could never get up.

“How’s Carson?” Thomas asked, desperate to avoid the subject.

_“Fine, just fine. We’re heading up to London tomorrow to open Grantham House for my gallery opening. It’ll be better for me to have a space away from the gallery where I can crash and burn.”_

“And Jack?” Thomas asked. “Any sight?”

 _“Still nothing,”_ Peter said.

“I see,” Thomas could not keep the somberness out of his voice.

 _“Let’s be honest,”_ Peter was rational, but not unkind. _“After Louise’s passing, Jack may never return. Wherever he goes, he’ll be alright. He’s had a hard life, he knows how to ride the waves. And maybe we will see him again, you never know!”_

“You never know,” Thomas echoed.

_“Go to any interesting bars over there?”_

“Why do you ask?”

 _“Oh I dunno,”_ Peter chuckled. _“I was just wondering if you’d met another homeless artist to flirt with.”_

“No,” Thomas replied, his tone turning slightly flirtatious without his knowing. “I have not.”

 _“That’s good,”_ Peter replied, _“Because I’ll have you know I don’t like to share.”_

“There’s no one that would want you to share me anyways.”

 _“You’d be surprised,”_ Peter grumbled. _“Carson started off saying that I was such a good man, but now? I don’t think he thinks I’m good enough for you.”_

“Oh give over!” Thomas snorted. What a ridiculous concept!

 _“I’m serious!”_ Peter cried. _“The other night, I overheard him say to the housekeeper that ‘Thomas can do better than an artist.’. Something about how your sister married a chauffeur and that was all he could stand.”_

“That’s Tom and Sybil he’s talking about,” Thomas said. “Honestly, what’s he think I need? A dentist?”

_“Hardly, your teeth are excellent.”_

“Look, don’t take it to heart-”

_“I don’t.”_

“Carson’s just… old fashioned. If a fork is out of place, he loses it,” Thomas said.

 _“So you’ve said,”_ Peter said. _“But I don’t care if he doesn’t like me. I just want to know if you like me.”_

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat.

“I…” Thomas looked down at his shoes. “I’ve been trying not to think about it, actually.”

_“Why?”_

“Bit like looking over the edge of a cliff,” Thomas said. “You know if you fall, you’ll never get up again.”

Oh the other end of the phone, Thomas heard Peter let out a long shaky sigh.

 _“I…”_ Peter was working up his nerve, and it made Thomas’ heart pound wildly in his breast. _“I have something I actually need to … do.”_

“Oh,” Thomas asked.

 _“I have to talk to Robert first,”_ Peter said.

His father? But why?

“Why?” Thomas asked.

 _“I’m old fashioned,”_ Peter said. _“I’ll tell you more later but… I have to go now.”_

“... Oh,” Thomas was dismayed. “Alright then, I suppose I’ll talk to you later?”

 _“Yes, I’m sure you will. My gallery opens in two weeks, so I’ll tell you more as I go along,”_ Peter said.

What a wild thing to imagine, Peter’s very own gallery. Thomas was determined to buy a painting that he could hang in his room. But what was Peter banging on about, having to speak to Robert?

“Goodnight,” Thomas said; he knew full well he’d get little answers out of Peter until the man was good and ready.

 

~*~

 

“Goodnight, Thomas,” Peter replied. As he hung up the phone, he could not help but notice that his hand was shimmering in a cold sweat.

He’d felt this sensation before. This dull burning in his throat; this ache in his chest. He knew what it meant.

“Oh…” Peter hung his head in shame. “I’m in trouble.”

 

~*~

  
That night, though dinner was sumptuous and the topics of conversation light, Peter Pelham sat amidst the Crawley family feeling horribly nervous and glum. Thomas’ empty chair next to him put out an aura of cold that he could not sweep aside. Across the table, Lady Mary and Branson were chatting and making doe eyes at one another while Lord Grantham pretended not to notice. It only served to make Peter long for Thomas more.

“You know if you fall, you’ll never get up,” Thomas had mused.  
Peter could understand entirely.

Dinner concluded that night with a lemon ice which was apparently one of Lord Grantham’s more favorite desserts. When it was concluded, Lady Mary decided that she would turn in early for the night, leaving Branson, Lord Grantham, and Peter to enjoy cigars and brandy in the dining hall. In the older years, this might have been a time for the men to talk about business and be all chummy with one another. But instead, Branson and Lord Grantham spent the time talking about how Tiaa the labrador puppy was spoiled rotten and needed to be trained not to jump on people.

An hour past, and the conversation began to dwindle without any input from Peter save for an occasional puff of a cigar.

“We’d best leave and let the maids get in here,” Lord Grantham mused. He rose from his chair, as did Tom, but Peter’s conscience was nagging at him, demanding that he do something about his predicament. He’d told Thomas that he needed to talk to his father, and he’d meant it. For better or for worse, the truth was the best policy in times like these.

“Actually, wait-” Peter called out to the man. Both Lord Grantham and Tom stopped, each looking over their shoulders.

“Lord Grantham, there’s something I want to talk to you about, if that’s alright,” Peter could not deny the tremble in his voice.

“Alright,” Lord Grantham was slightly taken aback, shooing Tom out of the dining room who looked politely puzzled. Now alone, Peter and Lord Grantham retook their seats at the table. As Tom closed the door, Peter suddenly felt a knot forming in his throat.

He did not technically fear Lord Grantham like he had his father and uncle… but there was most certainly something auspicious about the man which warned Peter not to be too open straight away.

“Forgive me for delaying your coffee,” Peter said. “But I wanted to talk to you frankly, man to man. I wanted there to be no room for secrecy or misunderstandings between the pair of us.”

“Should I be concerned?” Lord Grantham asked, puzzled.

“As an Earl, no,” Peter said, for there was very little that could shake the roots of Downton. “As a father, perhaps.”

Lord Grantham’s mouth fell slightly open, his eyes narrowing in thought. He was not angry, not by a long shot, but it seemed that he was catching on even before Peter said the words himself.

Because Peter had never said the words. Not even alone in his room.

“I will not lie to you,” Peter admitted. “Not when I respect you as much as I do. After all the kindness you have shown me over the past year… I must tell you that I have tried resolutely not to… But as of late ….”

Lord Grantham just stared, waiting for Peter to finish his rambling sentences.  
He supposed, there was nothing for it. He’d simply have to say what needed to be said.

“... I’m in love,” Peter said.

Lord Grantham tilted his head forward, following the train of thought to its only destination. “With my son,” the man finished.

“Yes.” Peter said.

A beat of silence drifted between the pair of them.

“Does he know?” Lord Grantham asked. There was no trace of anger or disgust upon his ancient face.

“No,” Peter said. “I didn’t think it right to tell him until I told you.”

“Why tell me?” Lord Grantham raised a gray eyebrow.

“Because I respect you,” Peter explained. Lord Grantham listened intently. “Because you’re his father. Because he loves you, and is devoted to you, and wants so badly to please you and be loved by you. Because you matter to him more than you know.”

“Well golly gumdrops,” Lord Grantham relaxed back in his chair with a slightly smug smile. “That’s quite a nice thought. What do you intend to do with your love for my son?” As he spoke, Lord Grantham poured himself a sherry and drank it.

“... Tell him,” Peter said. “See if he’ll have me. He probably won’t, since he’s already in love with Arion. And frankly I’m not worthy of him.”

“That is not necessarily true,” Lord Grantham assured him. “Not in my eyes. You’re a marquess, even if you gave the title to Bertie. You’re well learned, you calm headed, you have a good eye for the world about you… Honestly, if Thomas were a woman, I’d happily give him to you in marriage.” Lord Grantham set his empty sherry down. He poured another glass in a new cup, but instead of drinking it he pushed it over to Peter. Peter took it, though he wasn’t necessarily fond of the drink, and tried a small sip.

It was like cough syrup.

“Of course, you know that it could never be easy,” Lord Grantham said. “You could never get married, or be open in public.”

“True,” Peter agreed. “We’d have to be very careful. But I think so long as we stayed private, kept it in the family, we’d be alright. Don’t you?”

Lord Grantham tilted his head in thought, considering the options.

“I think we could even be wed, though of course it wouldn’t be legally binding,” Peter mused. “But it would be the sentiment that counted. Don’t you think?”

“I do,” Lord Grantham seemed surprised to find that he agreed. “And I confess, I’m oddly relieved that someone as kind and honest as you loves my son. His former paramours have been rather insidious.”

“That’s high praise and I thank you for it,” Peter replied.

“Thank you,” Lord Grantham gave him a tiny if warm smile. “For telling me first. For being honest, and sincere. It means the world to me.”

“I can’t be anything less,” Peter said. “It’s just not in my nature to lie. I suppose I’ve been in love with him since the moment he let me into Rustington but it took me a while to realize it. Do I have your blessing, to tell him?”

“You do,” Lord Grantham assured him. “And hopefully I shall have reason to congratulate you when Thomas returns from America.”

“I should tell you,” Peter said, for he felt it only fair to give both options, “If he doesn’t feel the same way, I’m not going to make a scene but I don’t think I’d be able to stay at the abbey anymore. Being around him, but not being able to be with him? That would be torture.”

But instead of replying that Peter was wise to plan, Lord Grantham reached out and put a gentle hand upon Peter’s slim shoulder. He squeezed it, endearingly.

“All will be well, Peter,” Lord Grantham promised. “All will be well.”


	16. Kettle and Pot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Peter reach new ground in their relationship, and open up a new chapter in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this fanfiction, and concludes the Thomas-is-a-Crawley fic line that I've made. Next, I'm making a Thomas/Carson fic, which was commissioned of me by a reader. If they agree, it will be posted online. I'm about to finish graduate school in two weeks, move in with my fiance, and visit England to meet my future in-laws for the first time. As a result, I will be slightly quiet in the near future as I pass through each of these hurdles. However, I will absolutely be posting more fic as soon as it's calmer, and look forward to seeing the movie in September. Thank you to everyone who posted on this fic. I appreciate your dedication and your generosity. 
> 
> See you in September! :)

As soon as Thomas was free of Junior, it felt almost pointless to stay in America. A week passed, with Thomas booking passage on _The Empire_ , a large steamship bound for a trans-Atlantic voyage out of New York Harbor. It would stop briefly in London before heading over to Normandy and finally ending its voyage in Melilla, Spain. It would take less than a week for Thomas to return home, which delighted him given that Peter’s gallery opening would take place on the very same night that he returned in port. It all seemed pre-destined to him.

His grandmother, however, was far from pleased to see him go. On the misty docks of the harbor, she watched _The Empire_ begin her boarding process with irritable eyes.

“So soon you leave me, and you say I’m your favorite,” She lamented.

“I’m going home, Granny,” Thomas would not put England aside, even for his favorite grandparent. “I have things to do. And let’s be honest, do you really want me around, cramping your style?”

But Martha Levinson just beamed, cupping Thomas’ face in her hands. “My sweet grandson. How did I ever live without you?” They embraced, with her laying her head on his shoulder. “Be well, and let me know when to book passage for the wedding.”

“Whose wedding?” Thomas wondered, pulling back to stare at his grandmother.

“Your wedding,” she replied. “To Peter.”

“Oh my god-” Thomas scoffed loudly, pulling back and taking a few steps away just for good measure. “On the dock, in front of everyone and God himself-!” Sometimes he wondered if she had any sense at all.

“I have more money than God,” she shrugged. “What’s he going to do to me?”

“Mama, really,” Cora chided. “Money doesn’t solve everything.”

But Martha Levinson just grinned and winked. “Come kiss me, and stop talking like an English girl.” They clasped hands and kissed one another sweetly upon their wrinkled cheeks. “Cora… my sweet girl. Be well, yes? And take care of your babies.”

“Of course,” She assured her mother. “And you’ll come see us soon?”

“I’ll bring my best,” was her wicked answer, a hand in the air as if to palm a large ornate feather upon her hat.

There wasn’t much more to be said, and the horn was blasting for final passengers to board for Liverpool dock. Thomas and Cora headed up the gangway; across the distance and gap Thomas could see Baxter already at the port hole with her passport to be stamped by the waiting officer. She slipped inside only to disappear.

At the top of the gangway, thomas and Cora were greeted by yet another officer, who checked their passport with little more than a glance. Money talked, and in the age of travel it assured safe passage for all who could afford to shell out first class tickets. Safely inside the ship, the pair of them threaded their way through a heavy throng of passengers, a few of which had even brought their dogs on gilded leashes.

“Did you really say she was your favorite?” Cora wondered with a smile.

“Well she is,” thomas replied.  
His mother just grinned and laughed.

 

~*~

 

 

For five days, The Empire pushed relentlessly across the Atlantic. The first voyage had been leisurely and slow, more of a pleasure cruise than anything. Now, returning home, everything felt overly fast paced. One minute Thomas was unpacking on the ship and taking tea with Baxter. The next minute a steward was knocking on Thomas’ door and warning him that they would be docking in half an hours time. Leaving his room, Thomas was shown the heart warming sight of London from the Thames.

“Mary,” how glad he was to see her. He embraced her, and kissed her gently upon the cheek.

“Thomas,” she replied. “You’re back early!”

“I told Junior to stuff it,” Thomas assured her.

“Thank god,” Mary rolled her eyes. “He was getting tiresome.”

“Mary- Tom-” Cora would not be put off. She kissed her eldest daughter and son in law, glad to see them both.

“Welcome home,” Mary said.

“England missed you!” Tom added.

“But I missed you most of all.” Pushing his daughter and son in law aside, Robert Crawley stepped forward from the back of the group to swoop down with chaste lips and hands. He gathered up Cora’s hands in his own, and pressed loving kisses to her gloved knuckles before likewise kissing her brow and lips. It was as if he was anointing her with his love, and it was slightly disgusting for Thomas to witness.

“It’s funny,” Cora looked up with watery eyes to the man she loved most of all. “I wasn’t even gone a month, and still it felt like a year.”

“Love is a peculiar thing,” Robert reasoned. They kissed once again. Behind his parent’s backs, Thomas pretended to gag, causing Mary to nearly laugh aloud.

Robert pulled back, threading his arm with Cora’s own so that they could begin walking up the dock towards the waiting Crawley car. “I’ll have you know, I received a very interesting telephone call from your mother.”

“You did?” She wondered.

“Lecturing me on how I had ‘ruined her bonding time’ with her only grandson by being overly reaching with my desires for stardom.”

Cora shook her head, slightly disappointed. “That sounds like her.”

“Thomas-” Robert stopped in his tracks, turning about to gave Thomas a rather withering look. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you let it drag out until poor Junior was already in America?”

“I don’t know-” suddenly thomas felt like a naughty child. “I just- you were so pleased-!”

“My dear boy,” Robert reached out with his one free hand to cup Thomas’ shoulder in support. “I am always pleased by you. So no more of this stuff and nonsense. We shall leave the sport of jockeys to more learned folk.”

It was good to know, at any rate.

 

 

~*~

 

 

Having Thomas and Cora back was both uplifting and slightly nerve wracking. With the knowledge of Peter’s adoration for his only son hidden under his hat, Robert wanted nothing more than to grab Cora, yank her into the first hidden grotto he found, and tell her everything. It was not like him to keep secrets from his wife (not unless they involved money) and when it came to their children, she was the one who often knew best. What would she say when she realized that their guest of nearly a year was now intent on courting their son? Would she be angry and disappointed, or would she be understanding? So often, in lieu of his father, Robert looked to Cora for advice.

Peter was not at home given that the gallery would be opening that very night. He was in the heart of London, or so he swore, finishing up last minute details and overseeing where paintings were hung. To Robert, there wasn’t much difference between a painting being hung on one wall versus another, but Peter swore that certain paintings had to be hung in certain places for their full measure to be accounted for. Not one to intrude on the ways of an artist, Robert had decided to let Peter do as he pleased while he and the family rested at Grantham House. It had been opened for more than a week now, and the staff were settled in cozily. Long gone were the days of Mrs. Buce, when Grantham House run all year round, but Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had brought it up to snuff as easily as you please. Now that Thomas was back, yet another room had to be prepared; but it was no matter. The maids were quick on their feet, and Thomas was hardly the highest standard in the house.

Thomas wanted to go to the gallery opening that night, and normally Robert wouldn’t care one way or another, but knowing that Peter was in love with Thomas, Robert had a feeling that Thomas popping up unexpectedly would frighten Peter senseless.

“We really ought to tell him,” Robert said. But Thomas was flippant and young, wholly unaware of how his world was about to change.

“Don’t!” Thomas said with a cheery smile. “It’ll be a fun surprise.” With that, he crammed two more lemon biscuits in his mouth. Now he and Mary were squabbling over the lemon creams, each wanting one for themselves.

“C’mon I’ve been away for so long-!”

“Three weeks; don’t be a pest, you know they’re my favorite.”

The family was crammed into the eagle parlor, a drawing room that once was his father’s favorite. With their children preoccupied, it suddenly dawned upon Robert that now was the opportune time to speak with Cora about Peter’s reveal. He caught her eye.

“Cora, won’t you walk with me? I have something that I want to discuss with you.”

“Alright,” Cora stood up, setting her teacup aside. “Shall we go check on Arion?” she asked with a smile.

“So long as we keep our distance,” Robert said. He had a feeling his son’s horse would be perfectly fine without company, thank you very much.

They left the parlor, venturing across the fine marble of the entrance hall to slip out the backdoors into what was technically their garden. Space was cramped in London, and there wasn’t much room save for a few hedge mazes and one fountain in the center. Robert and Cora therefore took shelter beneath a flowered canopy, enjoying the slight shade from the evening sun. Soon it would be dusk, with the family gathering to go to London’s center for Peter’s show. But before any of this could happen, Robert was determined to speak to Cora about Peter’s revelation of love for Thomas. Otherwise, she’d be blindsided.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Cora asked.

This was a tricky subject to be navigated, so Robert decided the best way forward was to assume absolutely nothing. “Has Thomas spoken to you about Peter at all?”

“Peter?” Cora wondered, slightly taken aback. “No, but I do know that Thomas is terribly fond of him.”

Robert would hide nothing, “Does he love him?”

“Robert,” Cora scoffed, as if he were being silly. “I don’t think that’s something Thomas feels open to talk about. You know how hard it is for him.”

That was, admittedly, a very good point. It was hardly like Mary debating over Matthew, where the whole family had had a position.

“Peter approached me while you were in America,” Robert explained. He glanced at his wife, the mother of his children, and found her waiting with expectant eyes. “He told me that he’s in love with Thomas.”

Cora looked away, placing her hands quietly in her lap. She didn’t look disappointed, not really, but there was something odd in her gaze. It was as if she was saddened.

“Are you upset?” Robert asked.

“I’m not,” Cora assured. “Does Thomas know?”

“Not yet. Peter wants to keep this all very private.”

“That’s sensible,” Cora agreed, nodding absently. “But what do you think Thomas will say?”

Now that was harder to say. Thomas was known to be a senseless romantic, but he’d also been horribly hurt in the past. Philip Prevet’s death had hung like a ghostly shawl around his shoulders; would Peter’s affections be enough to lift that gloom?

“I don’t know,” Robert admitted. “And that’s what worries me. I can’t help but feel that Peter is a good fit for him.”

“It’s true they’re well matched.”

“But after everything that occured with the Duke, I can’t help but wonder if Thomas will be a little gun shy.” Robert rose from the bench, pacing in front of his wife.

But Cora was practical where Robert was worried, “If he is, then we’ll just have to be supportive. It may take some time. But who knows? My mother thinks they’ll end up having a secret wedding ceremony.” A laugh tickled at the back of Cora’s throat.

“The ceremony I wouldn’t mind,” Robert said. “But her visiting…?” His voice trailed off in obvious allusion.

“Robert,” Cora chided… but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her beautiful lips.

 

 

~*~

 

 

That night, London was painted with a sky of pinks and purples. The street lights glowed in a beautifully golden haze, and even the horses seemed to sparkle in their harnesses. Everything felt magical and right. Thomas had not been to art opening before, and he was excited to dip his toes into the art world. He wanted to dine with eccentric people and learn about wild ways from exotic lands. He wanted to see paintings that were scandalous and hear music pieces that were beyond traditional. Peter, to him, was the gateway to all that was good in this world, and Thomas had been tired of being without him. Being in America, while interesting in its own right, had also been exhausting. He wasn’t meant to be away from Peter; he knew that now.

Bertie and Edith joined the family around six o’clock, having been in Edith’s old apartment that day, and the entire family went as one in two motorcars to the heart of London where Peter’s gallery opening took place at the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Based in South London, it was a beautiful brick building from the 19th century, and had enormous rooms for viewing art. It even had a mausoleum with three sarcophagus of ancient masters. Thomas didn’t quite know if he wanted to see the ghouls and crypts, but he was more than eager to look at Peter’s paintings placed next to the masters of the other “schools”. Apparently there were French, English, Dutch, Flemish, and Spanish paintings to be examined as well. All of it was enrapturing to Thomas, who as a servant had never had the opportunity to enjoy art unless he’d been accompanying the family to another Lord’s house.

They arrived at the east gate around eight, and clustered on the curb amongst a heavy stream of foreign dignitaries and exotic art lovers.

“Oh I can’t wait-” Thomas babbled as they made their way up the front steps. “This is going to be fantastic.”

“Now, Thomas, Peter doesn’t know you’re here tonight,” His father warned him. “So don’t scare him in front of his guests.”

“Why on earth would Thomas scare him?” Edith wondered. “They’re two peas in a pod. Peter will be delighted to see him.”

For whatever reason, Robert looked none too sure.

As they entered into the gallery, they were immediately greeted by the fantastical sight of a large collection of paintings hung from all angles on bright red walls. Comfortable black sofas sat in the middle of the floor, and were crowded upon by men and women enjoying cocktails and horderves from waiters in dinner jackets. Many people were clustered around a paintings in groups, pointing and observing as they murmured their approval. In the far corner, a small string band played gentle orchestra music which put the whole atmosphere into a soothing pulse.

 

“Oh wow-!” Thomas could not help but gasp. “This is fantastic!”

He’d never seen such a fantastical sight. He’d imagined perhaps there would be ten paintings, maybe even fifteen. But it seemed that in the time space of all the months spent at the abbey, it was clear that Peter had been painting his socks off. There were at least fifty paintings, maybe even more, with some large and some small. The subjects were as varied as they were beautiful. There were landscapes, portraits, fantasy images and still lifes. He did not know where to look first. He wanted to see it all, to understand each painting in depth. The gallery was packed with at least a hundred people, mostly upper class crust in love with their own wealth. But a smattering of people were clearly art investors, and a few were staring at portraits with such intensity that their eyes seemed to emit a heat.

Thomas tried to integrate, but felt a hand upon his upper arm pulling him back. It was his father, mindful of Thomas’ presence.

“Thomas, don’t stray,” Robert warned.

“I’m not a child,” Thomas pulled from his father’s grip and immediately set about integrating himself into the gallery. Had he but looked over his shoulder, he would have found Robert thoroughly annoyed.

The first painting that Thomas came upon was of a pot of white gardenias. They were lifelike, almost to the point of being real to the touch, and Thomas was delighted. The next was a painting of-

“... Daisy…” Thomas whispered the name in amazement, for it could be none other than Daisy bent over a steaming pot. He was beaming and did not even know it; he wondered what Daisy would think, to see herself so lovingly enshrined in a beautiful portrait.

Slowly Thomas traveled from painting to painting, unable to keep from seeing Downton’s residents in each of the subjects captured. Was that Anna and Baxter he saw enjoying a picnic by a lake? Surely that had to be Carson, illuminated only by candlelight as he stood at Downton’s threshold. Mrs. Hughes might have been placed in a dress more fit for the Dowager, but it was still her…

Quite suddenly, Thomas’ attention was pulled to the far wing of the gallery where a long cue of visitors were swarming around one painting in particular. It seemed that the wing offered a sort of recess, perhaps a place where very special work could be placed in isolation without other paintings crowding it. As Thomas drew nearer, he heard snippets of conversation from shocked onlookers.

“It’s absolutely scandalous,” Said a graying woman with a sneer.  
“It goes against everything natural,” Her male companion agreed.

Yet another cluster of people were ovelry excited, young and gay in flapper clothes as they considered their finances.

“It’s gorgeous!” A girl with bobbed hair said. “I wonder how much it’s worth?”  
“It’s supposed to be the key piece of the exhibit,” her friend agreed. “I think it’s beautiful don’t you?”

“Oh absolutely,” she gushed.

Against the wall, a tall man in spats spoke to a woman who was surely his wife with pearls about her neck.  
“If my mother were here,she’d bust her stays,” The woman said with a smile.

“Fantastic,” The man clearly didn’t like his in-laws. “Let’s put it in the drawing room.”

“Oh George,” the woman laughed. “Like we could afford it.”

“I’ll take out a loan.”

Now Thomas wanted to see what all the hubbub was about. He stepped into the cue, trying to but his way through the crowd, only to be taken aback by the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. He looked around to find his father, who was once again stern.

“Thomas, don’t go in there,” Robert said.

“Why not?” Thomas demanded. “Apparently there’s some incredible piece down there and I want to see it.”

“Yes, but-” Thomas cut his father off.

“Stop being such a bore!” Thomas pulled his shoulder away. “I’m not going to get into trouble, am I?”

Yet before thomas could head back into the wing, he was delighted by the appearance of Peter. In a red silk cravat and holding a paintbrush, he looked thoroughly artistic. Yet instead of being pleased at the sight of Thomas, Peter looked absolutely shocked. All the blood fled from his handsome face.

“Th-Thomas?!” Peter balked. “What are you doing here!? You’re supposed to be in America!”

“Oh that’s a real nice welcome,” he was rather put out.

“I-” Peter glanced down the wing where the unique painting lay.

“What’s down there?” Thomas asked. “Everyone’s real excited about it.”

“Nothing important,” Peter tried to say, but Thomas cut him off.

“Fat chance of that!” Clearly Peter was overly modest, nervous at being judged. Thomas wanted to see, and he would not be put asunder.

“Wait, Thomas-” Now it was Peter grabbing him by the arm. Honestly, why was everyone so intent on not letting him enjoy himself?

“What?” Thomas demanded in affront. Instead of offering an excuse, however, Peter came up short and just ended up sucking on his teeth in despair.

“Peter, honestly,” Thomas scowled. “It’s a painting. This is a gallery. Tonight’s the showing. If you didn’t want people to look at it, why hang it up?”

Robert’s eyes flicked to Peter, “He’s got a point, you know.”

Peter groaned, but let go of Thomas’ arm all the same.

Finally free to enjoy himself, Thomas at once pushed his way through the crowd to start making his way to the end. There were other paintings of the wall, most of them dark with lone figures in stages of repose. But Thomas was not interested in them. Instead, he was focused on the far end where an absolutely massive painting towered over everyone else.

Finally able to make his way through the crowd, Thomas broke free to--

To…

It was him.

He was staring up at a picture of himself, dripping in sea foam amid a raging sea. Upon Arion’s back, who was rearing as if to charge, Thomas seemed to have been born of the dark storm. He was stark naked as well, but half his form had been mutated, crafted into that of a woman. It was as if Peter had changed his sex halfway through, with one side of Thomas’ chest clearly sporting a swollen breast and half his hair in beautiful loping black curls. In Thomas’ arms, cradled against his chest, was the broken form of what was surely Louise. From the sea, from the darkness and the depths of hell, Thomas was rising up on Arion into a moonlight sky and taking Louise with him.

 

Saving him.

Which was perhaps why the painting was entitled _‘The Savior’._

Someone in the main gallery hall was starting the calling cue for bidding, and as a result many people were drawing away to take their place in line. But Thomas did not budge, still too captivated by the painting.

Peter had sworn time and time again that he didn’t know how to say the words.  
That he only knew how to paint.

It seemed that this was his declaration. The only way that he could, in effect, admit what was deep inside him.

Was this what he saw when he looked at Thomas? This sublime figure wreathed in salt water and foam? This half-man, half-woman, dragging a broken Louise out of a grave?

It was beautiful, that could not be denied. It was a painting meant to enshrine and serve as a standard of devotion… but there was something more to it. It was haunting and grim, a clear reminder of how awful things could be for men like Thomas, Louise, and Peter. But Peter had portrayed him as strong, rising above the sea to be triumphant upon Arion’s glistening back. Was this accurate? Was this fair? Had it not been he to succumb to drug addiction and misery time and time again? Was he really as strong as Peter believed?

Alone in the wing, Thomas almost wanted to cry.

Next to him, Thomas felt a presence. He glanced right only to find Peter, now his solitary company in an otherwise abandoned eve. Peter looked upon his masterpiece with reverence, twirling his paintbrush with nimble fingers.

“I told you, Thomas,” Peter whispered. “I’m a painter not a writer. It’s hard for me to put into words what I feel about you. But I can paint it, so I did.”

“... And what did you paint?” Thomas asked, for try as he might he found it very difficult indeed to label what The Savior actually encompased.

Peter stared at him, eyes misted with emotion. “Exactly what I saw.”

Thomas opened his mouth, wanting to say how much it meant to him. How much Peter meant to him. But before he could they were suddenly joined by several members of the Crawley family. Robert and Cora were there with Mary and Edith; clearly Bertie and Tom were getting a drink at the bar near the back.

Robert gazed up at the image of his son, and could only say, “My god.”

“Oh Peter,” Cora was moved, a hand upon her fluttering breast. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s incredible,” Mary agreed,” Is that Arion?”

“Who else,” Peter said with a waning smile.

Edith just smiled, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.  
“Everyone’s gathered in the main hall for the bidding,” Edith said. “We better join them.”

Yet as the family drifted away, Thomas noted that Edith undid a heavy tassle clasp keeping red velvet curtains back so that suddenly Thomas and Peter were given some solitude. It wasn’t much, just a heavy black out curtain, but it allowed them the privacy they needed to speak.

Thomas looked up at Peter, whose handsome face was now thrown into gloom and shadow.

“... Don’t you want to be a part of it?” Thomas gestured to the main hall. “You’re about to make buckets.”

“Don’t care about that,” Peter whispered.

Thomas’ heart skipped a beat, “And what do you care about?” he wondered.

Slowly, Peter brought his paintbrush up till it was eye level with Thomas face. Then, he carefully used it to touch Thomas’ cheek. It was like Peter was embedding life into him, using his paintbrush to spark some joy back into Thomas.

It was beautiful.

Peter reached up with his free hand, using it to caress Thomas’ cheek. In his breast, Thomas’ heart was thundering like Arion upon a rolling green.

Peter took a step closer.  
Thomas did not pull away.

And so, when Peter finally dipped his head low, Thomas’ eyes fluttered closed to block out the sight of Peter pressing his lips against Thomas’ own.

Thomas had been kissed by many men in his lifetime, but had never known such a gentle touch before. Peter’s kiss was not a smothering creature, trying to dominate or consume him. Instead, it was as if Peter were kissing an enshrined statue of a saint, something he wanted to cherish and protect. His hands upon Thomas’ face, smoothed and stroked; Thomas’ breath was caught in his throat, unable to escape for the fragility of the moment.

Peter paused, pulling back slightly. Thomas opened his eyes, the pair of them staring at one another in the shadow of Peter’s masterpiece. His ode to his love for Thomas.

Thomas thought of Philip. Of Louise. Of all the men in his life that he’d watched suffer for the very same thing that they were doing.

“Nothing will be easy,” Thoma whispered.

“I know,” Peter agreed. “But it will be ours.”  
And that, it seemed, was more than enough.

 

 

~*~

_Several Months Later_

 

 

“This is the most foolish thing I’ve ever done,” Robert wondered aloud.

Somehow, despite being raised to exhibit common sense, Robert was traipsing through the dark, without a torch, holding onto the arm of his feebled mother while his family followed behind. Up in front of them, about twenty feet ahead, Peter and Thomas were walking hand in hand, wearing the best suits they owned. It was dusk, just on the edge of night itself, and the family was heading deep into Grantham Woods to a place that only Thomas knew in order to partake in both an illegal and sacrilegious ceremony.

That was to say, Robert was about to watch his son get married to a man.

“Life is boring when you do everything as you’re expected to,” His mother assured him. “But can we trust this priest? What’s his name again?”

“A Father Holmes,” Robert said. “Peter knows him better than I do.”

“Well I hope we can trust him,” Mary complained from the back. Engaged to Tom, she was leaning heavily upon his arm to keep from tripping in the dark. They couldn’t use a torch lest someone catch a glimpse of them and inform the police of trespassers. A horrible tension lay upon the air, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was exciting, thrilling even.

“Of course we can!” Cora assured her. They were all so horribly out of place, walking through the thicket in their best clothes. “Don’t be frightened, Peter wouldn’t put us in danger.”

“Well I brought a gun,” Tom swore.

“Tom!” The name echoed from several mouths, each unimpressed.

“What?” Tom demanded, irritable. “Forgive me if I don’t want us going to prison!”

“No one is shooting anyone,” Edith warned. “We’re going to watch Thomas and Peter get married, go back to the house, and have dinner. End of story.”

“I hope you’re right,” Tom muttered. Robert noted there was an ominous bulge in his son-in-law’s right pocket. Clearly he wasn’t bluffing.

“It’s just up here!” Thomas called from ahead. “Granny, you’ll have to be very careful, it’s slightly steep!”

“Don’t worry, I’m a good sailor,” Violet assured. They reached the end of a heavy embankment, around which large trees had stretched their roots deep into the earth. Now Thomas and Peter were crawling down, holding onto each other and laughing. Robert feared he might rip his trousers as he ventured after them. The only mercy came from a fire that had been lit in the middle of the clearing. Beyond that, a man’s shadow could be seen. Clearly Father Holmes had gotten here before them.

“Crikey, this is over the top,” Robert complained. He all but had to lift his mother into his arms to help her down.

In a sprawling hobble, the Crawley family descended into the pit. At the bottom, they found the ground softer and more forgiving; the fire was comforting, and so they crowded around it.

“Ah. Here you are.”

Father Holmes was not nearly as eccentric as Robert had thought he would be. He was a large, beefy man with an enormous graying beard and (for whatever reason) a wreath of holly upon his brow. He looked rather like a mystic, which wasn’t at all what Robert had been expecting for a priest.

Now that he got a proper look at the man, Robert was downright convinced the man wasn’t Christian. There were painted symbols upon his robes, and he carried a staff of all things. A staff! What kind of nonsense was this?

“Are you a Christian?” Robert asked.

“Certainly not,” Father Holmes declared with pride. “I am a Druid, which is far more sacred in these lands. Christianity is the Pagan religion in England.”

Robert blinked, taken aback.

“Oh this is delightful,” His mother wondered. “Just when I thought life had gotten boring.”

For a moment, just a very small moment, Robert actually considered throwing his hands up and declaring a halt to the whole proceedings. It was one thing for Thomas to marry a man in the woods in the middle of the night, while dragging them all through the muck. It was another thing entirely for Thomas to be married to a man by a Druid.

But then… Robert saw the delight and adoration upon his son’s face.

“Thank you for this,” Thomas gushed. “It means more to me than you could ever know.”

“Nonsense!” Father Holmes beamed, spreading his arms wide so that the heavy robes of his clock flapped a bit. “The marriage of man is presided over by the stars of heaven. The gods and goddesses smile on you tonight.”

Robert barely suppressed a groan. Gods and goddesses, of all things.

But once again, he had to reprimand himself internally at the sight of Thomas and Peter, beaming at one another.

Clearly, they were tickled pink at the idea of being married by a wizard… so Robert wouldn’t complain.

“Shall we begin?” Father Holmes asked.

The pair looked at one another, and for a moment seemed transfixed in time. Peter reached up, and gently tucked a stray bit of hair away from Thomas’ pointed face.

 

  
“Shall we break the law, kettle?” Peter teased.

“Sounds like plan, pot,” Thomas beamed.

 

“Then let us begin,” Father Holmes said.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any comments or concerns, please do not hesitate to ask.


End file.
